


The Great Escape

by thewolfhoundandlittlebird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, Drunk!Sandor is a mush ball, F/M, Gregor (kinda), I'm taking liberties here, Injured Sandor, Original Character - Freeform, POV Sandor, POV Sansa, Slow Burn, it's gonna be a long journey, no- but seriously- it's going to be a while, road tripping on a horse, slooooooow burn, sneaky Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 87,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4688339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolfhoundandlittlebird/pseuds/thewolfhoundandlittlebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Battle of the Blackwater AU in which Sansa takes it upon herself to look after an injured Hound. But whatever happened to the notion of returning home? Can Sandor safely get Sansa back to the North? </p><p>Eventual fluff & lemony goodness, but you'll have to live through the angst just like our favorite ship. ;)</p><p>Picsets & maps when I remember to post them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I know back in the day, girls were married young, and it wasn't such a big deal for a much older man to be keen on a girl. But nowadays, it's a bit creepy, so I've aged Sansa up to around 18ish (yay, age of consent!) and Sandor down to 25ish. So, not that huge 15 year gap as in the books.

She wasn't sure how long she had been there. Staring. Hoping. She should really be getting back to her chambers, soon enough someone would notice her missing and send guards looking for her. But the only guard that mattered lay on the bed in front of her, bandaged and subdued with milk of the poppy. His face was peaceful under the sedation of the drug, the scowl that usually was constant on his brow, relaxed. She let her eyes study his face; the fissures of his burns across the left side, the ruin of half of its composition. His normally clean-shaven jaw had sprouted soft stubble in the weeks since he'd been under. Nobody had even bothered trying to keep up his appearances, what little there was to salvage of them, anyway. It was a shame. No one seemed to care. She resolved then that she would return, if only to keep him company. She wasn't sure how she would manage it… maybe sneak out in the night? There were less guards patrolling the castle then, it might allow her cover. It had been lucky this one time that she'd visited, just to check on him, but multiple times would prove more difficult...

 

She remembered what had landed him in this position: it had been weeks since the Battle of the Blackwater, since Stannis had been beaten back by the sudden arrival of Lannister forces. The city saved by lions once again. She had been alarmed when he fell through her door that night. She'd only opened it after recognizing the voice on the other side; _he won't hurt me_. But as soon as she had tugged the heavy door open, her name had come spilling out of his mouth in a whisper as he collapsed, clutching his side. Sansa was still uncertain why he had ventured to her chambers, of all of them, that night, mortally wounded from the battle. It perplexed her. But she chalked it up to him doing his duty to the king, ensuring that his betrothed was unscathed from the fighting. She'd managed to find a maester to tend to him, get him down to the infirmary to tend to his wounds. He was  one of her only friends here and she wouldn't see him die without at least _trying_ to save him.

 

And so the  dusty  sunlight dipped below the bottom of the little window above his bed, alerting her to the ever-passing time, snapping her out of her reverie. She needed to get back to her room.  They would be looking for her soon enough. 

 

She stood, giving his hand a squeeze before dragging her chair back over to the corner, setting the room back the way it was when she'd entered. No one must know that she'd been here. She couldn't risk anyone knowing of their odd friendship, especially Joffrey. He'd only twist it, doing what he could to inject whatever evil he could into it. Her stomach knotted at the thought.

 

“Get better, Sandor,” she implored quietly before slipping out of the room and out into the dimly-lit corridor.

 

She kept to the shadows at the edges of the halls as she made her way back to her room. It was fortunate that most of the other occupants of the castle were busy with dinner and their nightly chores. Only a few handmaidens passed by her, their heads bowed as their paths crossed, and she hoped desperately that those particular girls weren't in the habit of spying for their masters.

 

She made it safely back to her room, barring the door as she stepped inside. Her stomach was a-twitter with the nerves from the walk from the infirmary to her room, and… something else? She realized as she focused on the feeling a little more that she was scared. For a change, not for her own fate, but his. He seemed such an unbreakable force, but he'd been under sedation for weeks and he was healing so slowly. Her hands fidgeted absently, her nervousness needing to be released.

 

Shae, her handmaiden, had left a tray of food on the table under her window, a goblet of wine set near it. She took a long drink from it, trying to use the alcohol to settle her nerves. But such a thing would do no good. Perhaps sleep would bring her peace, a break from worrying over him.

 

The covers were warm as she pulled them up to her chin, settling into her pillow and willing herself to sleep. When it finally claimed her, her dreams were filled with the nightmarish memories of the battle, of the unnatural green tinge of the sky from the flames of wildfire, of the brief relief she felt hearing his voice on the other side of her door, only to be met with that great immovable man collapsing in front of her. The memories morphed into manifested fears: of a funeral pyre, of Joffrey's evil smirking face standing on the other side of it, the last remnants of her protector burning away. She woke screaming sometime in the middle of the night, with no one to hear her cries.


	2. Chapter 2

The dreams he'd been dreaming recently had been the worst he could remember. And they never seemed to stop as of late. But was he really dreaming? He couldn't be sure. The green flames that erupted from the soldiers charging at him certainly  _felt_ real.  The heat of it. The fear. The bay in front of him on fire. But were these memories or nightmares? He tried to shift, to pinch himself and wake up if he really was dreaming, but he couldn't. His arms were stones, unconnected and unfeeling. This couldn't be right. He focused on trying to flex his quadriceps, willing the muscle to tighten,  _anything_ , but they wouldn't budge. He was powerless in his own body. 

 

* * *

 

“My lady, where do you think you're going at this hour?”

 

Shae stood with her hands fisted in her hips, her stance clearly indicating that she was going to give Sansa grief about her plans of sneaking out. Her foot tapped the cold stone floor from under her pink silk skirt. If she'd been just a little more couth, she would have reminded her of her mother. Her heart ached at the thought. What she wouldn't give to see her mother again. Arya. Robb. Bran and Rickon. Lady. She'd lost everyone. The only people left in her world were the ones in this castle. The woman standing in front of her, and the man that woman was currently blocking her from seeing.

 

“Shae. I can trust you.” It was more of a statement now that she'd gotten to know her. She'd never faltered in assuring Sansa's trust.

 

“Yes, my lady. But can I trust you? It's past dark, and you have no reason to be leaving your room. Where are you going?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow insolently at her as she spoke the words.

 

Sansa considered her. It would be safer if she was able to rope Shae into standing watch while she visited him. “You must swear not to tell anyone.”

 

Shae made a little  criss-cross with her finger over her chest, “I swear, my lady. You know I wouldn't tell anyone.”

 

“If I tell you, will you help me?”

 

Shae glared, obviously not humored at the way this conversation was going. “That depends on what you tell me and what you want me to do.”

 

She hesitated, worrying her lip.  _What would she think?_

 

“I'm going to visit the Hound.” Shae's eyes widened at that. Sansa hurriedly explained herself. “He's only ever been kind to me. And I haven't heard anything about how he's been doing. I wanted to check on him.” It was partially true. She really hadn't heard anything… but she decided it was best not to mention that she'd already been there once.

 

“Sansa, I know why you feel like you should check on him. But it's really not a good idea. What if someone saw you? Do you know what they would do to you? The king's betrothed, comforting the king's sworn shield?”

 

“It would be safer if I had a lookout,” she countered, hoping against hope that Shae would concede.

 

“I suppose you're going to do this whether I help you or not?” Her posture relaxed a little and she crossed her arms over her chest. _Yes!_

 

“It's only right, Shae.”

 

“Fine. But you need to listen to me if I see someone coming, do you understand?”

 

“Oh, thank you, Shae.” The words had barely even escaped her mouth before she threw on her hooded cloak and gathered her supplies from next to her wash basin. She'd remembered how disheveled he'd looked laying in that bed. Maybe she could at least wash his face a little without anyone noticing. She tucked them under her arm, grabbing a candlestick in the process and looped her arm through Shae's on the way out the door.

 

* * *

 

Their skirts rustled about them as the moved quickly through the winding halls of the castle. S hae seemed to know all of the secret ways through them. Sansa had been there far longer than her, but she'd only ever been escorted through the common halls, and she'd only sneaked around by herself once: the other night going to the infirmary. 

 

Her handmaiden poked her head through the door when they got to the infirmary, checking that they were alone, and judging the coast was clear, opened the door wider for Sansa to enter. 

 

She grabbed her arm as soon as she crossed the threshold. Her dark eyes bore into Sansa's, urging understanding. “I'll stay out here. If you hear a tap at the door,  _hide_ . I'll cover for you. Got it?”

 

Sansa nodded, eager to check on the only patient in the room: that unbreakable man, laying oddly broken on the rickety cot under the window.  She set her things on the small table next to the bed, her candle dancing on the glass of the small bottle of milk of the poppy that was already there. She dragged the chair in the corner back over to the side of his bed, appraising him as she drew nearer.

 

T here was a light sheen of sweat on his brow and his eyes were moving madly under his lids; something must be distressing him in his sleep. She felt badly for him, she knew how nightmares were. But he was still heavily sedated, and no other part of him moved. He was otherwise completely still. She didn't really know where to begin. The other day, she had only been in briefly to check on his recovery and to see that the maesters had done everything in their power to save him. Now she expected it of herself to stay longer, to look after him as best she could in her own way. She extended her hand the short distance to his, running her thumb over the knot of muscles  in his hand.  The skin there was so smooth, such a contrast to the jagged terrain of the scars on his face. Her eyes moved up to his, still frantic though closed. She sighed, reaching for the damp cloth she'd brought with her and dabbing it across his forehead. He was burning up.  She couldn't remember what that meant, but she knew it wasn't good. Her mother had always been concerned when her brothers caught fevers, but their maester had always tended to them and they'd be fine. Maybe that's why the man under her fingers wasn't recovering as quickly as she'd expected. Were they just letting him lay here to die? He was their loyal dog! How could they? She could feel anger rising in her, suddenly furious that it seemed he was being neglected. After all he'd done for her; keeping her safe in this hell.

 

Just then, she heard a tap at the door: Shae's signal to hide. Someone was coming! She quickly scanned the room for anywhere to conceal herself, and there were precious few places to do so.  It would have to be the bed. 

 

She scurried under the small cot that served as his bed, pulling her skirts closer to her body, making herself as small as she could manage under the cramped circumstances. It was only then that she remembered her things on the table, the chair out of place, the candle illuminating the dingy space. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to slow her breathing down, become quiet and imperceptible. At least that was a skill she was trained in. _Seen, but never heard_. She just hoped that she wouldn't be seen as well. Her palms began to sweat as she waited for some signal, anything else from Shae. She could hear the bootsteps getting nearer….


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit since I updated this thing, huh? Posting what I'd started on another chapter before I figure out what sort of pacing I want to go with...
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this tiny little chapter. :)

 

The few minutes that slid by seemed to be in slow motion. It took forever for the bootsteps to grow louder as they approached coming up the hall. Then she could just barely hear the faint grumbles of men, the light laugh of a woman, then more bootsteps fading as they continued on. Everything rushed back into focus, time speeding up to regain its pace. But Sansa remained huddled under the cot, waiting for some sign from Shae that the coast was clear.

 

It was several minutes until she poked her head through the door, hissing at Sansa.

 

“We need to leave, my lady. Now.”

 

Sansa extracted herself from under the cot, her limbs feeling the relief of being able to stretch again, even though it had only been a few minutes since she'd been under there. She smoothed out her skirts and made to move the chair back to its rightful place. She remembered to grab her supplies before heading back over to Shae.

 

“I told you this wasn't a good idea!” Shae scolded once she was near enough.

 

“But Shae, look at the state he's in. He's burning up with fever. We must do something.” Shae pushed her out of the door, shooing her along down the hall.

 

The two women walked in near silence back to Sansa's room, the only sound their shoes clicking on the cold stone floor. Shae seethed next to Sansa until they reached her room, and she spun around on her once they'd crossed the threshold of the door and made sure no one had followed them.

 

“Sansa! You're being irresponsible!”

 

“Shae, I don't think you understand. I owe him for saving me during the Bread riot. I could have been killed or worse, ra-”

 

The look on her handmaiden's face made her stop in her tracks. “Sansa, you don't owe him anything. He was just acting out of the King's best interests. What would your _beloved_ have done if his favorite toy had been broken?”

 

Her words seemed to solidify what she'd always thought. She wasn't worth anything to Joffrey, really. He just wanted to torture her. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing that the Hound had saved her after all. Maybe he had only prevented her from her only way of escape from this Hell: death.

 

But she just couldn't bring herself to feel that about him. Whatever it was that they had between them- that odd friendship, or at least camaraderie of being stuck here- regardless, it was better for her that he be alive and able to protect her. She must do whatever she could to see him well.

 

“Well, besides, he doesn't have anyone else here, and it seems like he isn't being taken care of properly. It wouldn't be very moral of me to just leave him there to die without at least trying to save him.”

 

Shae considered her words, a frown slowly growing across her exotic features. It seemed it wouldn't take too much more convincing to get Shae to root for him, too. Sansa knew she had a point. The sanctity of her good heart would prevail.

 

“You're good friends with Lord Tyrion, right?” she tried. She didn't think it would have been possible, but a blush crept up her handmaiden's cheeks at the question. What was _that_ about? “I've seen you two speaking in the hallways, if only in passing. He always seems pleased to see you.” She paused, gauging the other woman's reaction. Her features softened, her posture relaxed.

 

“Do you think that you would be able to speak to him about someone tending to the Hound? I'm sure he would listen to you.”

 

Sansa could tell that she'd trapped her. Shae really was supposed to do anything that Sansa asked of her. She couldn't rightly refuse her Lady.

 

“If I do this, will you promise me that you'll stop visiting him? It's not safe for you to keep going there.”

 

“Of course,” she lied. _Victory_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Evidently, Shay from Assassin's Creed is what I imagine Sandor to look like in my head. Who knew? I don't even play the game. So please excuse the pics where he's not in era-appropriate attire. I was going for facial structure over clothes. :) Same goes for Sansa.
> 
>  
> 
> [Sansa Inspo](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/44/97/e3/4497e33640134eeb8acedafa391e5997.jpg)  
> [Sandor Inspo](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/8c/a9/98/8ca998c84dfd22bfcfd13418c3c531e6.jpg)

* * *

Sometime in the haze of the morning, he was vaguely aware that someone was poking at him. It was gentle, at first; timid, even. But then he could feel the bandage, now fused with the scabs of his wounds, being ripped off across his ribcage. If he'd had the facilities to do so, he would have roared and kicked and punched, but as it was, still under the influence of that milky bottle he was sure was beside this damned cot he was on, he was unable to do so. Try as he might, no matter how hard he focused his energy on any of those things, his muscles refused to move. He couldn't even open his eyes. And so he endured while they poked and prodded, pried open the gash he'd received the night the Blackwater had burned. It must've been deep because they were at it for a while, and a few times he thought he might pass out from the pain. But the thought of losing even more control kept him cognizant, aware... feeling.

 

After what seemed like hours, he felt the burning cool of eucalyptus menthol pull at his skin and a soft bandage soon followed to cover the now raw-again flesh of his wound. He heard the scrape of a chair being dragged away from his bed, could tell that the curtains in the room were being drawn as the dim light on the other side of his eyelids faded. Soon, there was nothing but blackness and quiet and he finally let himself nod off. There wasn't anything he could do to make himself more comfortable. What was the point of staying awake?

 

She visited him again then. He'd been dreaming of her recently, and he couldn't be sure whether it was these damned opiates they kept forcing on him or just cruel dreams. A jape of the gods of what would never be. She was over him again, an elbow propping her up at the edge of his bed while a hand brushed his hair out of his face. Her copper waves were half pulled back this time, some tumbling down over her shoulders and absently grazing his chest. The silver threads woven into her too-tight dress glinted in the candle light, and he thought that if there actually was a Maiden, this girl just might be her incarnate.

 

“I can't stay very long this time, I'm afraid,” she whispered, and the space between her lips and his ear was much closer than he could have hoped to imagine. “I just came to see how the maester did. I was hoping that you might be awake this time.”

 

Her fingers continued to smooth down the stray strands of his hair, her soft voice breaking up the silence in the room. “I wish there was something more I could do. You've done so much for me, whether you realize it or not. I know you don't believe in gallant knights,” she trailed off for a moment, stilling her movements and letting out a sigh in the space between her words. “I don't think I even believe in them any more. I guess sometimes it's not the knights that come to rescue you. Sometimes it's the loyal dogs.”

 

He thought he heard the chair she must've been sitting on being pushed back, and the ministrations on his hair stopped as she pulled her hand away. “I wish I knew why you were always so hateful.” Another sigh, a few more heartbeats pounding in his ear. “You once said killing was the sweetest thing there is.” He could have sworn her delicate fingers slid into one of his paws. “It breaks my heart to think that maybe you never knew anything sweeter.”

 

He felt the cool softness of a wet cloth being dabbed at his forehead as she continued. “At least you're looking a little better now. I know, you think you're so terrible. But once you get used to it, you're not that bad.” Was she teasing him? The fuck kind of dream was this, anyway? Certainly wasn't going the way his dreams about her normally went. “It's your scowl that always scared me, if I'm honest. I guess I can be, can't I? Honest. It's not like you can hear me; you're asleep. For all they know, you might never wake up.” A sniff, a pause, a regain of composure. “Oh, gods, please don't die. Then I would well and truly be alone.”

 

She dabbed at his forehead a few more times and then he heard her push the chair back, the scuttle of little feet as she moved around the room. “Until next time, then. I'll try to come back later in the week, if I can. I think Shae's on to me. I bet you don't even know who that is, do you?” _Yes, I do. The one with her tits always out. The one who's never been a handmaiden in her life_. “Try to get better, will you? Don't leave me alone in this gods-forsaken castle.” A squeeze to his hand and then she was gone. Vanished from his dream or… whatever the fuck that was. Couldn't be reality, that was for sure.

 

* * *

 

Sansa lay in her bed, staring blankly up at the canopy above it, the blankets and furs pulled way up to her chin despite the touch of heat in the air rolling through her open window. His cloak lay next to her, rolled up like maybe it could have been a body, if she pretended hard enough. The guards hadn't even noticed when she'd snuck it back into her chambers after they'd hauled him off to the infirmary that night. They'd ripped it off and just left it to lay there, and she didn't really know why she'd picked it up in the first place. But now, as she let her thoughts roll around in her mind, perhaps it was just for some semblance of comfort. Especially currently, as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine someone- _anyone-_ from her family was next to her. But it just smelled like smoke and charred cloth and the metallic tinge of the old blood stains. It smelled like what she imagined he would. Like death. Somehow it was an oddly comforting mix: the made-up fantasy that her brethren were next to her, the hope that perhaps one day the Hound would wake to protect her again, and the assurance that at least she would be able to escape this Hell at some point: in death.

 

* * *

 

The sun poked up above the sill of her window and brought with it another torturous day. Soon enough Shae appeared and tugged and pulled her hair up into that _ridiculous_ Southern style like Joffrey liked it, and then she was on her way to court. To be ridiculed, blamed, beaten. It was the same every day, and every day she wished maybe the Hound hadn't reached out to her in those seconds before she was to push Joffrey off that bridge. At least then she would likely be dead now, and wouldn't have to put up with it. How far she'd come from thinking the world was just a song! Despite his gruesome appearance, the Hound was the truest of them all in this viper's nest. He'd told her to watch her back.

 

As ser Meryn's mailed fist connected with her stomach for the second time that week, she found her mind wandering to that bulk of a man in the infirmary. How she would much rather be there, of all places, at that exact moment. Even if the conversation was one-sided, it was nice to be able to talk to someone. It was painless. No fighting, like she was constantly doing with her words to save her life. No lying, because really, what did it matter? It wasn't like he could hear her, anyway. No judgement, no strategy. She wasn't exhausted when she returned from her room after visiting him, unlike when she'd return from court. It was such an effort just to maintain her composure, to not let them see her break.

 

“Ser Meryn, I think that's enough for now. You can continue tomorrow.” Sansa looked up to see Joffrey's wormy lips twisting up in a sinister smile. “Perhaps by then, she'll have even more to answer for. Though, I would hope for my lady's sake that her brother isn't _stupid_ enough to move on us, again.”

 

The mention of her brother didn't even manage to stoke her hope anymore. She knew she'd never see him again. But still, Joffrey liked to taunt her with him. _Evil vermin._ Her mother's voice scolded her in her head; she shouldn't say such things against her King, even if it was in her head.

 

The walk back to her chambers felt longer than it usually did as she limped along. Meryn had gotten in another good blow to her thighs before he was called off, and her muscles quivered with the strain of walking. But her expression remained blank, perfectly calm.

 

It was only when the guards took their posts outside her door and Shae left her that she cracked. She dug into her cedar chest, down past her summer silks, until her hands met the coarse fabric at the bottom.

 

Her tears fell silently into her pillow and her sobs wracked her body as she buried her face into his cloak.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make my day! No tagging first, pwease. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Her thoughts were wandering again. To Robb on the battlefield, alone. Her lost family. Dead or missing. Shae stood behind her, tugging her hair up into another one of those ridiculous styles the ladies at court preferred. There wasn't any point. She would just be beaten again, her hair would be ruined, and all this pomp would be for naught. He should just kill her and get it over with. But that would defeat the sport of it. And monsters like him were only in it for the sport. The hunt of it. Not like true men like her father or brother. They only killed when they had to. They never _enjoyed_ it.

 

“My lady?”

 

Sansa shook her head, her wandering thoughts scurrying away back to the dark corners of her mind. “Yes, Shae?”

 

“My Lady, I asked you a question.”

 

“I'm sorry. I must have not heard you.” Her eyes met her handmaiden's through the reflection of the mirror, and the woman's eyebrows raised in challenge. But almost as quickly as they did, they fell again, and she was back in her carefully practiced act of servitude.

 

“I asked you how the Hound was doing.”

 

She certainly hadn't expected that one coming. “I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

 

“I think you do.” Shae narrowed her eyes at her.

 

“I'm sorry, Shae. I don't,” she lied. “Mayhap you could ask Lord Tyrion the next time you see him. In passing, of course.” Her eyes were wide as they stared back at her handmaiden, years of training culminating in the lie of her innocence. But her tone oozed knowledge, and Shae backed off.

 

“Your hair's finished, my Lady.”

 

Sansa looked back at her reflection in the mirror. The perfect Lady. Not a hair out of place, intricate braids wrapped around a rolled band across the middle, two braids framing her neck and draping over her shoulders. Absurd. If these Southern ladies spent half as much time on their hair, they would get so much more done in the day.

 

Her mother's sensibilities appealed more and more to her as the days wore on, but she still yearned every once in a while to feel like that little girl she used to be: the one that dreamt about handsome knights and pretty dresses and elaborate hairstyles. About true love and happy endings.

 

There was a knock at the door and Ser Meryn called from the other side, summoning her to appear in court. _Here we go again._

 

* * *

 

The pain in his side wasn't as bad as he remembered. Whoever was there poking and prodding at him all the time must have been doing something right. And he was starting to be thankful that he was still sedated, because as much as he knew they were helping, he wanted nothing more than to punch those maesters every time they touched him.

 

He'd been thinking about her again. About how he still couldn't discern if it was a dream the other night when she visited him. It had felt so real, but surely she wouldn't. _Probably too busy with her buggering knights_.

 

So when he heard the soft sweep of the door opening, the gentle click of it being carefully shut, and the quiet tapping of footsteps coming over to him, he made sure to pay attention.

 

Soon, there was the dabbing of his brow, the fingers brushing his hair out of his face. Her hushed voice as she talked to him.

 

“Tyrion says you're doing better. Well, Shae did. She's friends with Tyrion, you know.” _Right, 'friends.' Naive little girl._

 

“You should be back up in no time, is what she told me. I wish I could do something more for you. But at least your face will be clean,” she dabbed again at it. Her fingers ghosted over his cheek, over the stubble that had gone unchecked the weeks he'd been sedated. “I wish I could shave this off for you. I'm used to seeing your chin and it's… strange… it's like this softens you somehow,” she mused. “Not like you'd ever be mistaken for being soft, I mean. I don't wish to offend you… but oh, who cares? It's not like you can hear me, anyway. You'd probably just tell me to quite my chirping if you were awake.” _Aye._

 

“Well, I should probably get back. I don't want Shae to stumble into my room and me not be there.” She dragged her chair back into its corner and patted him on the arm. “Do get better soon, Sandor.” _Sandor._ He couldn't remember the last time someone had used his actual name. And of all people, this little bird.

 

The door clicked closed at the other end of the room, and he was left alone with his thoughts and lucid dreams. Why was this girl who was always so afraid of him before coming to visit him now? It must be out of duty, and if not that, her ladylike courtesies. If only she knew why he'd found her the night the Blackwater had burned, perhaps she wouldn't be so willing to dote on him.

 

* * *

 

The next several weeks were spent much the same way, with Sansa sneaking into the infirmary late at night. At first, it she just checked on him, washed his face, chirped her courtesies. But as the visits went on, and he still wasn't awake, she found herself spilling secrets to him that she never thought she'd say aloud. How she never expected Joffrey to turn out to be such a monster when he came to Winterfell. How she'd been in love with him. How she wished she'd listened to his advice so much sooner, as yes, he was right, it would have saved her a lot of pain.

 

She told him about the events in court; who was attending, who'd been dismissed, and who was now assigned to beat her at every opportunity. How she deeply wished that Robb would just defeat the city already and take her home. But somehow she just _knew_ that it would never happen. Even if he did eventually make it here, she would long be dead, and maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

 

She found herself lying awake in bed each night she'd not managed to sneak off to see him, wishing that she was there. There was something comforting in the fact that he couldn't hear her, and yet she could still talk to someone. She almost needed it. Needed the refuge escaping the reality of the torture she faced every time the sun rose.

 

And so her surprise was almost evident under her carefully practiced vacancy the day that she appeared in court to find him standing behind the king. She tried to count back the days that she'd last been to visit him. The whole past week she'd been detained in one way or another; a guard perpetually stationed outside her chambers or a late dinner she needed attending to. One particularly bad night after a run-in with Ser Meryn that had her laid up in bed all night, recovering from his punches. A whole week had gone by and she'd not been able to sneak away, and now look what happened. She'd missed him waking up, which gave her an odd pang of guilt, but really, it was for the better. How would she explain that one away?

 

There she stood, beside one of the stone pillars that framed the room, watching the Hound on the dais behind his king. Permanent scowl back where it always had been, except for in those weeks in the infirmary.

 

The king rattled on with his speeches, and the girls around her chirped and chattered at something he said. Something Sansa had not been paying attention to because her eyes had settled back on the Hound after they'd done their circle around the room. And as her eyes drifted over from Ser Blount on his right, to his, her blue eyes were met with the cold steel of his; and she got the distinct impression that perhaps he hadn't been entirely sedated all those weeks when she thought he had.

 

_Oh, no._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, this one's a little rushed, and the next one is likely to be, too. I got writers block after the past few chapters, and so I started writing bits and pieces of later in the story. Frankly, I'd rather be writing that right now. So, as awful as that is to just sort of skip through a bit of the story in order to move on to the next bit, that's what's gonna happen. Plus, there was only so much I could do with one-sided conversations. ;)
> 
> Alas, I hope you enjoyed. :)
> 
> More to come soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! *Abuse*
> 
> Also, a moment of gross.
> 
> Apologies in advance.
> 
>    
>  [Picset](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ca/3e/d8/ca3ed8da370027205fa88581798fa0bc.jpg)

Mid-day was unseasonably warm, considering the maesters' almost constant chiming of _winter is coming_ to anyone that would listen. The dulled broadsword felt heavy and natural in his hand, and he swung it with careful enthusiasm at his sparring partner. He had made a point to come out to the practice fields every day since he'd woken up. He was nothing if not useless if he couldn't fight, and a dog must earn its keep. The Lannisters may be many things, but generous was not one of them, and he knew that if he wasn't useful, he could count himself out of a job.

Meryn was opposite him, easily deflecting Sandor's blows that normally would have landed the lesser man on the ground. But today wasn't a particularly good one for him: he'd woken up with shooting pains through his ribcage, a stiff back, and an even grumpier mood than usual.

“You're getting weak, dog!” Meryn shouted at him. Sandor wiped his brow as the other man huffed across from him. He was used to insults, thought not normally about his strength. Regardless, he was ready to let it slide off his back. Until the knight punctuated his statement; “I'd daresay you're weaker than that little Stark bitch.”

Thoughts of all those weeks prior came floating to the surface, when she'd come to him to vent about the newest day's beatings. All those times when she'd said it was at the hands of Trant. He'd always hated the twat. He looked down at his sparring partner, casually guffawing with the group of squires leaning against the wooden fence.

“What was that, Trant?” His head swiveled over to meet Sandor's narrowed eyes.

“I _said_ you're weaker than the Stark bi-”

The last word couldn't escape his mouth due to Sandor's fist colliding with it. The knight went reeling backward, and the squires caught him as he fell back toward the fence, his hand cupping the blood spilling down his chin.

“I doubt that.” Sandor spat at his feet, stalking his way out of the training yard.

He hadn't even noticed the redhead and her fellow ladies strolling on the terrace above the training yard when he'd been in it, but as he climbed the stairs back up to the keep, he thought he caught her bowing her head at him. And was that- a hint of a smile?

Well... sometimes it was the little victories. A small payment for her looking after him while he was out, he supposed. He only wished he could do the same to that prick King.

 

* * *

 

The months drew on in a blur of sparring matches with increasingly easier partners. He was glad to have his strength back, albeit he noticed the patch of newly-healed skin on his left side limited his range of motion a bit.

Days were spent going to Court, faithfully standing behind the boy king as he was commanded and watching as peasants were brought before him to be mercilessly dealt with, or, more often than not, Lady Sansa to be ridiculed yet again. Or beaten. That seemed to occur more frequently than he remembered her mentioning.

Afternoons were spent in the training yard, constantly improving, and keeping an ever-watchful eye out for another dot of red up on the terrace. Every once in a while, he would see her, but she would disappear as soon as he'd notice, and that was just fine. Better to keep his attentions on the opponents in front of him, he reminded himself.

 

* * *

 

It was far too early for someone to be knocking at her door, and yet the pounding was almost ceaseless. She sat up from under her pile of furs, hastily trying to smooth down her sleep-mussed hair.

“Yes?” She sleepily called out to the fists on the other side of the oaken door.

A familiar rasp responded. “The King wishes to see you, Lady Sansa.”

Inside, in the privacy of her quarters, she hung her head. She knew what that meant, and even though it happened more often than not these days, she still wasn't prepared for it. Could she ever be?

She heard scuffling out in the hall, and there was a quieter tap on the door this time.

“My lady?” Shae's thickly-accented voice called to her.

“Yes, Shae.” It didn't even sound a question, and she pressed her fingertips to her temples, closed her eyes to try to block out the thoughts of how her day was going to end up.

“May I come in?”

“Yes,” she said through her hands.

The door creaked open and her handmaiden strode into the room, all business as she yanked open the curtains and let in the weak morning light. She saw him waiting just outside the door, trying to look anywhere but at her, and she realized a bit too late that she hadn't bothered to cover up her chest. Her sleeping shift was remarkably thin, and she pulled up her covers to try to conceal what she could.

“He expects you there in an hour,” he informed her as Shae scuttled around the room.

“She'll be there when she's ready, Hound.”

“I wasn't talking to you.”

Shae glared back at him, her hand on a tray of breakfast that she hadn't even seen her bring in. “And keep your eyes over there.” She waved her hand to the opposite side of the room. “The Lady's not decent.”

There was no humor in his eyes as he scowled back at her before directing his attentions over to Sansa. “He said to look your best. And he's in a mood, so you best wear the nicest thing you have.” His words were borderline treason with his description of the king, but she appreciated his honesty.

“I will, thank you Ser.”

“I am no ser.”

Shae was already at the door before he finished his sentence. “Yes, yes, we know. No go!” She shooed him away, and Sansa listened to his heavy bootsteps disappear down the hall. “Which one of these still fits, my Lady?” her handmaiden asked as she pulled open the doors to her wardrobe. Sansa idly watched as she pushed aside hanger after hanger, Stark silver and blues set to the side because they were made close to five years ago. She still kept them, of course, but there was no way that she would be able to shove her woman's body in her girl's clohes. It would have to be the sole dress in there that Cersei had made for her: the one in the fine Lannister red silk, devoid of embroidery because she wasn't worth the effort of the stitches.

Her handmaiden turned back around to her, the slippery silk of the dress folded over her arm. “This one, then?” Sansa nodded once, her quiet acceptance.

 

* * *

 

“Don't you think my Lady looks exquisite today, Hound?” Joffrey sneered over at his guard, a look of mockery painted over his pasty skin.

He couldn't be sure if it was a trap, so he allowed his eyes to flicker only for the briefest of moments to the girl in the center of the room. Joffrey looked on, impatiently waiting for his answer. “Aye,” was all he could muster in reply. She really did look lovely, though the hair was bit much. But the silk of the dress she was wearing hugged her curves nicely, even if the color of it clashed with everything else about her.

“Lady Sansa, do you know why I've called you here this morning?”

Her eyes were devoid of emotion, as usual, and she kept them on the spot on the floor in front of his shoes as she answered. “No, your Grace.”

“Stupid, as always,” he spat down at her.

She may be many things, and stupid may be one of them, but even Sandor didn't know why they were called to Court this early in the morning. They'd normally at least have eaten breakfast before having to listen to the king drawl on about shit that didn't matter and his terrible decisions.

“I've called you here to tell you the good news. But, first, I'd like to remind you of your place here in this court.” Joffrey looked absolutely pleased with himself, and Sansa remained looking at the floor, her face as cold and vacant as the alabaster it resembled. “Ser Meryn, will you please remind her of her traitorous family? Of her bad blood?”

The knight stepped down from his position on the dais and fell behind Sansa. Her flinch was almost imperceptible, but months of being struck, it seemed, had instilled a certain involuntary reaction to Ser Meryn.

“Lady Sansa,” the king began. “I would like to remind you of the time that your brother, who claimed treacherous words against the Crown, _the King in the North_ , declared war against us.” He nodded to the knight behind her. “Ser Meryn?”

And it begun. A smack to the back of her legs with his sword to punctuate the King's words. She schooled her features to not betray the sting from the steel, the pain on top of her already bruised legs.

“And the time that he stepped above his _place_ when he took the Twins. The Twins- one of the Crown's most valuable allies.”

He swung at her stomach. She kept her eyes low, her tears lower. She'd long since learned not to let them see those.

“And when he moved into the Westerlands, sneaking in under the stealth of night to _attack_ our forces.”

His mailed hand slapped across her face, turning it to the side. She felt her lip splitting, a trickle of blood starting down her chin. Her eyes skimmed over the crowd as she turned her head back to its place. They briefly took in the face of the man behind the throne. His scars twisting horribly as he clenched his jaw, his usually straight posture tensed and primed, though he moved not.

“And now, dear Sansa, I present you the good news. Ser Meryn-”

She felt her dress tear as he slid his dagger along the back of it. She didn't even bother to stop it as it slipped down her shoulders. What was the point? His clammy fingers trailed over her shoulder as he moved away from her, and she internalized the gag she felt bubble up.

“Your brother was shown the true might of the Lannister forces. As the city's forces are still recovering from the Blackwater, my grandfather's army met your brother on the battlefield.”

She allowed her eyes to meet the King's this time, and the emerald green glinted maniacally.

“It was a swift defeat. Crushing, they tell me. Your brother's army wiped out in a few hours. It was truly stunning. All that blood.” His eyes glinted at the mention of carnage. “Nearly everyone was killed, and those that remained have been taken prisoner. I've instructed my generals to send us the important ones for the Black cells, and the women will go to the Street of Silk. I hear the Northern women are especially good for beatings.”

At least it was over. If Robb couldn't rebel anymore, at least maybe there stood a chance that he wouldn't have a reason to keep beating her. Though that was truly unlikely to stop him. Oh, those poor people. Those women who probably had babes at home- to be shipped off to whore houses and sold to demented perverts. She fought back the sickened frown that dared to turn her lips.

“But I do have a present for you, as my condolences.” He snapped at a servant off in the corner, and he went scurrying away to retrieve something from out of the throne room. When he came back, he was carrying a plate of pie. An odd thing to be presented with, but then again, Joffrey was an odd boy. “I hear that it's tradition in the North to bring food as offerings when you lose a family member. And as both your brother and mother were killed when our forces _destroyed_ their army, well. It's only fitting that we make you feel at home, now isn't it?”

Her eyes lazily flitted between his ugly sneering face and the steaming pie on the floor in front of her. She couldn't even bring herself to tears, though she desperately wanted to. She'd expected as much for the past few months, and steeled herself for the inevitable. Even if she could've though, best not to let him see her cry. It would only give him satisfaction.

“Well, aren't you going to eat it? Don't be rude, my Lady. Where are your manners?”

“I'm sorry, your Grace.” She ground out, doing her best to remember her courtesies despite the circumstances.

“Go on, I want to make sure it's to your satisfaction.”

She picked at the crust, lifting a crumb of it to her lips. She wouldn't let him have the joy of seeing her accept this. He watched on with glee, and her eyes flitted again to that man behind him. Sandor's eyes were fixed at some point in the back of the room, but the hand on the pommel of his sword bore the white knuckles of restraint. It gave her a little comfort knowing that out of all of this, at least she'd managed to do something better than that man. At least she could control her emotions better.

“Do you like it?” He sneered at her, his wormy lips twisting awfully.

“Yes, your grace,” she muttered at the ground.

“Good, good.” Relief washed over her as she sensed the end of his torment for the day. He turned to leave, Meryn scuttling over to catch up to him. She saw the Hound move then, pulling at his cloak and making his way over to her. She clutched at her dress for the first time since it had slipped down her shoulders as he walked over to her. He'd just dropped it wordlessly over her shoulders when Joffrey stopped at the exit.

“Oh, and Lady Sansa? I'm so glad that I could finally make good on my promise to deliver your brother's head on a plate. I hope that pie is as delicious as his defeat was.”

It took a moment for her to process the words, but when she did, it was impossible to stop the bile rising in her throat. She doubled over, heaving over the pie with her brother in it. The sick brought with it all the tears she had contained over the past few months, the sobs, the shaking. She heard Joffrey laugh as he left the room, leaving her in a pile of tears and mess, wrapped in another one of Sandor's cloaks.

 

* * *

 

 

The king's cloak billowed behind him as he strode toward the small council chambers, puffing himself up. Sandor consciously slowed down his pace to maintain his distance from the boy.

Joffrey looked over his shoulder, addressing his guard. “That, I think, was one of the best ones, don't you think, dog?”

Sandor grunted in reply, more of a question than a statement.

“This morning- in the throne room. I really got her.”

“I'd afraid I don't know what you're talking about, your Grace,” he grated.

“I'll let you in on a little secret, then, _dog_. Her brother is alive and well on the battlefield, while the Lannister forces wait for their opportunity to strike. I just couldn't resist, though,” his lips twisted back up into that seedy smile of his. “Maybe it was too soon, but I just had the thought last night, and I couldn't resist seeing her face when I told her she'd eaten her brother. Hah!” He boy was positively all smiles as he reminisced about that morning's torture. “Great fun, wasn't it?”

Sandor could only grunt in reply again, this time from the effort of resisting the urge to deliver a swift blow to the little twat's nose. _One too many_ , he thought as Joffrey disappeared into the small council chambers. _One too many lies._

 

* * *

 

She was quiet all the way back to her chambers that afternoon. Normally, she'd try to titter some kind of conversation at him, to which he would normally rasp one-worded responses, but now there was nothing. Her eyes were bloodshot from spent tears, her cheek purple and lip still caked with blood, though he could tell she'd tried to clean it up a bit. It reminded him of the day he'd stopped her on the bridge, dabbing at her lip with his handkerchief.

They approached her door wordlessly, and by the time they reached it, he'd made up his mind. Her dainty hand reached for the knob, and he propped his arm against the jamb. She looked up at him with mild concern in her features, though her eyes were still unreadable.

“Ser?”

He didn't even try to scold her courtesies. She'd been through enough today. Her blue eyes met his, contrasted by the red around them.

He'd been drinking that afternoon as it was, but he was sure. “Pack your things. Pack light. Something warm and anything valuable.” Her eyes registered mild alarm. Or was that something else? He wasn't used to seeing anything other than the bad emotions in people's faces.

Her voice was hesitant, quiet. “Ser?”

“Quickly, and say nothing to anyone. Not even that whore of a handmaiden of yours. Understand?” She nodded, maintaining the lock on his eyes. “I'll be back at dusk.”

He turned to leave and she turned to disappear into her room. _For once, I hope I'm doing the right thing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the pie. I know, gross. But at least it was just a rouse!  
> So, I work generally when no one's up, and so I'm up to my own devices to entertain myself all night, and yesterday there was a rain shower strong enough to knock out the internet/TV... so, devoid of my usual YouTube shenanigans, I figured I'd write. So, yay! New chapter! Hopefully more to come soon.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa froze, one of her hands halfway-shoved into the cedar chest at the foot of her bed while the other gripped tightly to the linen bag at her feet. She didn't really know what she would need, or where they were going, or for how long… or really anything. She just knew the look in his eye was one of absolute determination, albeit perhaps a little clouded by the Dornish red on his breath. But if she'd learned anything in her time at court, it was that the Hound was a functioning alcoholic, and there was no reason not to trust his judgment after he'd been in his cups. The knock on the door that had alerted her in the first place continued.

“Lady Sansa?” Shae's thick accent called from the other side of heavy oaken door, the one that she'd barred as soon as the Hound had left. “Are you alright?”

She hastily shoved her bag in the chest, closing the lid as quietly as possible. She did her best impression of her voice, woken up from a nap. “Hmm?” Her handmaiden shifted out in the hall. “Yes, Shae. I must have fallen asleep.” She rolled onto the bed for good measure, making an indent in the pillow for her head. _That might be a nice thing to take, too. Oh, but I'm sure that would just get in the way._ She'd have to do without her creature comforts, she supposed.

“I brought you dinner. Are you hungry, yet?”

She fake-shuffled to the door, furthering her ruse, and lifted the heavy bar to peer out at her handmaiden. Right under her nose was a tray of an assortment of food: sliced pears, a round of creamy-skinned cheese, some red grapes in a silver bowl, and a slender crusty roll of bread, a few slices cut for her. Toward the back of the tray was a pewter goblet with the deep red of sour wine sloshing around as she moved the tray. A lemon cake poked out from underneath the goblet.

“Are you going to let me in, my lady?”

Sansa rubbed her eyes, making herself appear bleary-eyed. She let the door creak open, and Shae stepped inside to set the tray on the table near the window. Her handmaiden bustled around, closing her drapes to darken the room and lighting candles to counteract it. “Are you feeling better?”

She recalled the days' events, sickening at the thought of it. “Yes,” she lied. “I think I just need some sleep, is all.” Shae's eyes were dubious as she looked up from her task. “Really, Shae.” _I expected this,_ she wanted to assure. _It's not the worst that could happen_. Though at the moment, she struggled to come up with anything that actually _could_ be worse.

“Would you like me to leave you, then?”

She nodded, and her handmaiden looked a little disappointed. “I'm sorry, Shae. I just need some sleep. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Well, I'm right down the hall if you need anything.” Her deep brown eyes met Sansa's, trying to comfort her. The proximity hadn't escaped her, nor the possible implications of such, and the difficultly it might attract in sneaking out. But she'd done it plenty of times now without anyone noticing, she supposed.

The door clicked closed behind her as she left the room, and Sansa hurried to bar it again. She quickly went back to her task of packing, gathering all the supplies she could think of. It was with a tinge of guilt that she left her childhood dresses in her wardrobe, opting for the biggest ones she could find, the only ones that just barely fit her now. When she was done, she set her bag down at the end of her bed and peeked out the window to check on the time. He would be there soon enough, she reminded herself, as the sky changed from the deep colors of sunset and gave way to the dusty hues of twilight.

 

* * *

 

Every hushed footstep to her chambers served as a reminder why he was doing this. He forced himself to reiterate his reasoning: _they're all liars here… she's not safe… for once in your miserable life, do something good…_ He repeated them in his head all the way down the corridors, the twists and turns through the Red Keep that led him to her door.

He tapped quietly at the wood and hoped that she heard. Alerting anyone else to his plan would likely be certain treason. After a few moments, she opened the door, and he was relieved to see she still had enough sense to be ready to go. Her long copper waves were braided back and she wore a simple grey dress. Woolen, by the looks of it. He didn't need to ask her to gather her things; she just did, as obediently as a child trained as herself was expected to. He watched her wordlessly from the frame of the door as she pulled on a heavy green cloak and picked up the bag at the foot of her bed. She tugged down the hood of her cloak and stepped out of her chambers, looking expectantly at him.

Their path led them down through the keep, through the godswood, down the alleyways of the Street of Silk, through twists and turns that she'd likely never been down. When they passed back through the godswood, she started to lag behind him, and he could tell without even looking at her that she was starting to have her doubts.

“Best to make sure we're not being followed.” When he didn't hear anything from her, he clarified. _Dense child._ “The more complicated you make it, the harder it is for someone to track you.” He looked over his shoulder to see her nodding, her long legs skipping to catch up to him.

Just before they were about to exit the godswood, he took an abrupt left turn, and he heard her stumble a little at the sudden change of direction. Stranger snorted from deep in the shadows, waiting just where he'd left him.

 

* * *

 

They must have passed by him on their way through the first time, but she hadn't even noticed the great black beast lurking in the shadows on the first pass. It was only after he greeted his master that she noticed the red flecks in his mahogany eyes glinting in the darkness, the distant lights from the keep making him look as evil as his intended purpose normally was. He stamped angrily as she approached, and the Hound gave him a loving slap on his neck.

“She's with us, Stranger.” _A blasphemous name for a beast_. Though right now, she was glad for him. He was their escape. The Hound turned back to her, holding out a hand for her bag. She handed it over, he tucked it in one of the saddlebags, and then made to reach for her. Unknowingly and instinctively, she flinched away from him. “I'll not hurt you, little bird.”

She calmed her fluttering heart, startled from the sudden movement toward her. “Apologies, my lord.”

“Don't start with that, girl. I'll leave you here if I have to listen to your chirping all the way North.”

So that's where he was taking her. _Home._ But why? There was nothing there for her. _If only_. “I'm sorry, I just…” She didn't really know how to explain. _I'm sorry, I just thought you were going to beat me? I'm sorry, I just got scared of you for a moment there… momentarily thought Joffrey sent you to finish the job?_

He looked down at her, eyes tired already, his hand still extended for her to take.

“You don't need to explain.” He tipped his hand at her again. “Up you go.”

She took one more look at the beast next to her, his flashing eyes almost glaring at her, and placed her hand in the other beast's paw. In one smooth, almost gentle motion, he had her up at the back of the saddle, and he swung up a moment later. She sat still as he adjusted his armor, moving his sword so that it rested against her leg behind him. He tapped the sides of the horse, and they quietly moved forward, moving in the shadows and slowly picking their way through the innards of the godswood.

She realized a moment after they started at a trot that she didn't know where to put her hands. Up to that point, it was easy to just keep her balance without needing to touch the man in front of her, but now that the ride was more jostled, she found herself needing to grip onto something for stability. At a loss, she decided that his belt was safe enough, and tucked her fingers underneath the leather strap.

It seemed like forever for them to reach the walls of the city, and with a sinking feeling in her gut, she realized they were headed the wrong direction. Instantly, thoughts of doubt clouded her mind. _Is he drunk? Does he not know the direction North? Surely, he does…_ but they were quieted when she worked out at least this part of his plan: the Mud gate was in shambles, Stannis's forces having demolished it just a few months ago. It was in the process of being repaired, thus, more people were known to be frequenting it. They blended in easily with the hordes of people leaving their work for the day, passing by a new shift of workers entering the city. She almost couldn't believe it had been that easy to leave, and she held her breath almost out of habit as she waited for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop, for them to be caught. For the gold cloaks to come chasing after them when they recognized her copper locks, though she double, triple, quadruple checked that she'd secured them under her hood.

But as they swung around the walls of the castle, through the shanties on the outskirts of the city, out through the woods and off the road, she started to think that maybe they'd just done it. It still wasn't until several hours riding in silence, just the sound of Stranger's heavy breaths and beating hooves that she allowed herself to really breathe. And the air that filled her lungs was sweet, free from the stench of that retched city, free from the clutches of that monster.

Her hands gripped onto the leather in her palms a little more tightly, and she leaned up so he could hear her.

“Thank you, ser.”

“Girl...” His voice was a warning tone as he tipped his head over his shoulder to address her.

“What would you prefer I call you, then?”

“Sandor... Just call me Sandor.”

“Thank you, Sandor.”

 

The moonlight glinted off the metal of his armor, and as she stared out at the night-sliver landscape in front of her, she wondered if he might not have only been saving her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeee!  
> I finished this just as I had to go get breakfast set up, so I didn't get to post it until I got home. :(
> 
> I'm quite proud of this one, though it's short. Hope you liked it! :D  
> Today's my day off, so hopefully I'll get a chance to write....


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, I did a little research to figure out how far they'd be able to go on Stranger, and how quickly. I found quite a useful little breakdown from someone who was doing similar research, and based on the weight that they're carrying (Sandor is not a small guy, plus Sansa, plus their shtuff), the terrain they're in (not on a road, cause they don't want to be seen), and the type of horse Stranger is (a destrier/courser; big and bulky and powerful, but not so fast), they probably average out at around 10-15 miles/day before he'd need to rest.
> 
> I just thought I'd throw that in there cause I spent a bit of time on it, and thought it might be useful (at least for me when I'm "charting out" their course). :)
> 
> [Picset!](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/70/5d/d5/705dd5104745eb1dc4c7c44ac47efc88.jpg)

They rode until the horizon turned from the blackness of night to the faintest deep grey. For the past few hours, the tug on his belt had been inconsistent, and every once in a while, he had to reach back to make sure she wasn't going to fall off the saddle when she'd doze off. There was something that poked at the clenching in his chest when he'd think about it; that of all the women he'd been around in his twenty-five years, she was the only one comfortable enough to let her guard down around him enough to sleep. That, or she was exhausted from the events of the day. _Likely that than the other,_ the reminded himself bitterly.

He leaned back in his saddle almost imperceptibly, and Stranger slowed to a halt. The girl behind him stirred, and he could feel her movements as she stretched. He cursed himself for thinking about how if he didn't have his armor on, if he just leaned back a bit, she would be right up against him…

“Where are we?” she inquired, her chirp sleep-hazed.

“Still in the Crownlands, I wager.” His answer was matter-of-fact, and he swung down from Stranger without elaborating. He raised his hands up for her, and lifted her down with the care he'd placed her up there with previously. _Fragile bird_.

She stood there quietly as he led Stranger over to a tree to tie him up, drawing her cloak around her. He was halfway through taking off his saddle when he heard her clearing her throat somewhere behind him. “Do you need help?”

“No,” he bit, and he heard her shifting uneasily. Perhaps that was a little too harsh. He turned from his task, and she had her head down and hands clasped in front of her. _Shit_. He wasn't used to having to be considerate. Being blunt had always worked for him in the past, but now that he had this delicate creature under his care, mayhap that was something he would need to work on. He considered for a moment how easy it might be to just make her sturdier, but dismissed it just as quickly. She was a lady. She wasn't supposed to be sturdy.

She picked at the sleeves of her cloak absently. With a sigh, he dug into one of the saddlebags to find a brush. “Get some sleep, bird. It's been a long night, and I can't have you falling off the saddle when we get back on the road.”

“Oh.” She looked around at the damp silty ground and the stream behind her, searching for a dry spot in the dim light.

“It'll have to do. We're not like to find a featherbed out here. Best get used to the ground.”

“No, I know. It's just...” She smoothed her hand over the fabric of her cloak. _Doesn't want to get dirty. That'll have to change_.

He pulled at the strap fastening his bedroll to the saddle and tossed it to her. “Here.” He was surprised when she caught it, her hands quick and sure as they clasped onto the leather on the outside of it.

“Thank you, ser-” He glared over at her a second after she caught herself. “Sandor. Thank you, Sandor.” She settled on a patch of dry soil under a tree rooted into the side of a bank, spreading out the bedroll he'd given her. He didn't really know what he'd expected, but she looked awkward here in the forest: misplaced.

But it would have to do, and hopefully soon enough he would be able to hand her back off to her family, and she'd be back in the comfort she was used to having.

 

* * *

 

She settled herself on the bedroll he'd given her, uncomfortably, she noted, but reminded herself to be kind about it. She hadn't thought to bring anything like that, and apparently he hadn't thought to bring one for her, because she only saw the one. It must have been his, and he'd given it up for her.

She bunched up one side of her cloak for a pillow, pulling the other side around her as a blanket, and tried to shut her eyes to get to sleep. But she found that without the motion of the horse under her, it was almost impossible.

He was still across the tiny clearing from her, and as the impending sunrise lightened the sky a little more, she watched his movements.

Stranger's saddle was already off, placed on a felled tree off to the side, the blanket folded neatly atop it. She watched at he brushed him down, working his way down his neck, across his shoulders, down his thighs. Over to the other side to repeat the process. Stranger nibbled absently at the shoots under him as his master worked, unconcerned with his movements and quite unlike how he'd reacted to her the night before. He was a different beast around Sandor, that much was certain. Perhaps it was similar the other way around, too, she noted as she watched the non-knight move. He dug in the saddlebag once more, pulling out another instrument and making his way back over to his horse. She watched his mannerisms, his simple, silent movements when he leaned into the shoulders of the beast, easily getting him to raise a hoof to clean it. There was something between them that struck her: the relationship between animal and master, a completely opposite side of the Hound than she'd seen previously. Well, maybe except in the way he treated her. It may not have been love, but… an understanding.

Soon enough, he settled against a tree, not exactly near her, but close enough to strike someone around her should an attack come. Her eyes were drooping heavily, and she barely caught it as he leaned his head back, eyes sliding closed as he tried to get some sleep. One hand was on the hilt of his sword, laid out along his legs. Always ready. As she herself was slipping into sleep, she saw his eyes peer over at her one last time, checking perhaps if she was still there.

 

* * *

 

It felt like only seconds after she'd drifted off that she felt something nudging at her shin. She blinked blearily, trying to focus in the watery morning light dripping in through the trees.

“Sansa,” his voice was hushed, and she turned her head to try to find him. He crouched at her feet, left hand on her leg. That must've been what woke her up. His back was straight, eyes focused above the surface of the bank over them, right arm crossed in front of him and assuredly grasping onto his sword. “Wake up.”

She propped herself up on her elbow, furrowing her brow to silently ask what was going on. He just pushed his finger to his lips in response. _Quiet._ She looked over to Stranger, stock-still, ears pricked up and head turned in the same direction as Sandor's. She ventured to scoot herself up so she could see what was going on, too, and as she raised up above the bank, she felt a hand on her shoulder pushing her back down.

Off in the distance were clouds of dirt kicked up by horses, moving closer to them. If she focused, she could hear soldiers yelling back to each other. As they neared, she made out the iconic gold plating of the city's guards glinting in the sunlight.

Her voice was hardly over a whisper, “What do we do?”

He barely turned his head toward her, but kept his eyes on the approaching soldiers. “Nothing, if we can help it,” he whispered back, his voice just as raspy as usual.

“Are you going to fight?”

“I'd rather not.”

She counted the horses approaching. Five had turned in their direction, another three forking away from those. He could take them. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

“It would alert the other soldiers. I'm sure it's not just them, and we're not far enough away from the city yet.”

She nodded, her stomach in knots and heart pounding. _Should have known it was too good to be true._

 

* * *

 

They needed to get going. It couldn't have been more than an hour that he'd been out when Stranger had stamped his hoof and woken him up. The horse was alert, which made him instantly alert, too, and he'd quickly determined the reason: Goldcloaks. Eight of them pointed in their direction, and likely more to follow behind them.

He regretted having to wake her, her pretty copper tendrils loose from her braid swaying in her breath as she slept. _Pretty little bird._ But there were more important things to attend to than gawking at delicate things. For instance, the ever-present danger riding toward them.

She'd been easy enough to wake, and he was thankful that she wasn't too startled. She didn't scream out like he'd expected her to when her sleepy eyes took in his awful face. _Not the best thing to wake up to._

It'd be best if they could just sit there quietly as the Goldcloaks rode by, undetected. The likelihood was slim, though, and so he quietly moved over to Stranger, crouching under the bank to stay unseen. It was a slower process than he would have preferred to get the saddle on without making any noise. As he was working at fastening the buckles, he motioned to Sansa to roll up the bedroll, and as obediently as he would have expected, she set to her task. Frankly, given the circumstances, this whole thing had so far been going easier than he anticipated.

They'd gotten out of the city without incident, put maybe five leagues between its walls and themselves and managed to get at least a little rest up to this point. Now was the matter of eluding those soldiers.

He set the buckle closed and went to untie Stranger, waving at Sansa to come over to him and pressing his finger to his mouth again to tell her to remain quiet. She passed under the bank and cautiously approached his horse. Stranger glared at her, but seemed to understand his place, standing as silently and still as he was trained when Sandor told him to. He was surprised when the little bird tied up the bedroll herself, without being instructed, and without Stranger giving her any fuss.

She turned her body towards him, raising her hand in anticipation of being lifted up. _Quick learner, at least_ , he thought as he placed her up on the horse. He swung up silently after her, years of training and experience limiting the amount of sound and movement he made doing so. Without moving the reins much, he pulled on each side until Stranger backed up obediently into the bushes behind them, shrouding them under the foliage.

The grip on his belt behind him tightened when the soldiers appeared on the horizon of the bank, picking their way toward them, only a few yards away. He was thankful that they were in their full regalia; heavy and slow and the stupid helmets limiting their range of vision. His Hound's helm was likely still sitting on his straw pallet where he'd left it back in his quarters, back where he'd left his old life.

He heard Stranger start to breathe heavier, and he reached his hand up to rub his neck, calming him down. They sat and watched and waited as the soldiers walked past them, their voices loud in the morning mist as they bullshitted.

“...probably snuck out with some pretty boy, is what I think.”

“Stark whore.” Sandor felt her grip on his belt tighten, insulted. “You're probably right, fucking useless if you ask me. Have us out here at this gods-forsaken hour.”

“She'll probably stroll back in to court, not a hair on her fucking head misplaced, and after we've been out here for hours and haven't found a thing.”

“Can't wait to see the look on that cunt's face when we tell him she's just in her room.”

“Wasn't the Hound supposed to be looking after her last night?”

 _Shit_.

“Hah! Wouldn't that just be it? She's probably fucking _him_.”

They looked at each other a moment before cackling with laughter. “Nah! Too fucking ugly!”

He was glad that it was dark in the bush they were in, and that he was facing away from her, lest she see the inconceivable rush to his cheeks, whatever the fuck that was about. He gripped the hilt of his sword a little harder, fighting the urge to just run these cunts through.

They'd passed by, their voices carrying away from them now, making their sentences indistinguishable. Fucking right cunts. He wasn't sure what he hated more about them: that some of them were knights, or their pompous fucking armor, or their air of arrogance. One thing, though, that he was sure of, was his desire to sink his sword into each of them. _No, that would draw attention_.

And so they waited silently atop Stranger until they were far enough away that they could sneak off in the opposite direction.

It looked to be another long day through the forest ahead of them, the hours ahead likely tense and guarded as he kept a lookout for more of those buggering Goldcloaks. The sooner they were out of the Crownlands and into the Riverlands, the better.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Some woodsy inspiration](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/1d/09/af/1d09afa424b532ddf2ca2e202bc7edac.jpg)  
>  I couldn't really find any other kinds of pictures that I liked, so I ended up with a few landscape-y ones.  
> Sansa-centric chapter, and I promise there'll be some action coming up soon- just hang in there.

Sansa stretched carefully atop the beast, his pace steady and hindquarters rocking as he carried them through the thick underbrush of the forest. It would be steadier, she supposed, if she'd scrap that little bit of dignity that made her still sit side-saddle, but she _was a lady, and that's not how ladies ride_. She'd watched the sun arc through the leaves all morning, and her stomach grumbled angrily to remind her that it was time to eat something. The man in front of her hadn't said anything to any effect since earlier when they'd seen the Goldcloaks, and she was starting to wonder if perhaps he was hungry, too. Or if he'd even say anything if he was. Or what he ate. Or how frequently. _How exactly do you feed a Hound?_ The thought was almost enough to tug her lips up into a smile, but then she remembered again, with the same visceral clarity, the last bit of food she'd eaten. She felt the surge of nausea rise up and panicked.

She tapped her guardian on his shoulder, “We need to stop.”

He half-turned around, a look somewhere in between annoyance and concern furrowing his brow. “Why?”

“I think I'm going to be sick,” she replied, clasping her hand to her mouth in an effort to keep it down.

He didn't say anything, just grunted with the same sentiment his face showed. He leaned back to stop Stranger and swung down from the saddle, holding his arms out to her to lift her down. “Thank you.”

She didn't even register her embarrassment as she ran away from him, quickly ducking behind one of the oak trees and dry-heaving. She braced her hand against the rough furrowed bark, her other clasped around her stomach. Off behind her, she could hear Sandor walking Stranger through the fallen leaves to the stream they'd been riding along, as if nothing was the matter. She tried to calm herself down, _get a hold of yourself. You. Are. A. Lady. And ladies don't act like this. Pull it together,_ she scolded herself, sucking in deep breaths to try to calm her nausea.

The leaves crunched underfoot as he walked over to her, and she closed her eyes to regain her composure. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his huge paw extend to offer a water skin.

“Here,” he rasped simply.

She took it from him, thankful for the liquid and for something to clear the bile in her throat. But when she pulled out the cork and raised it to her lips, the strong stench of wine and not the sweet smell of water met her nose. She jerked away from it, handing it back over to him unceremoniously.

“Ugh, what is that?”

“Dornish sour.”

“I need water, not wine.” She flinched, cursing herself for being so rude, and regretting her words when she saw his eyes cloud over. “I'm sorry. That was rude of me. I just-” she fluttered her hand at her face, trying to indicate how unwell she was feeling.

“It's all we've got, girl.” _Gods, he must think I'm so spoiled!_

“Thank you, I just think I might need something a little... less strong.”

He raised his eyebrows at her as if to say _suit yourself_ , and pulled a long swig from the skin.

“Would you mind finding my things?”

She followed him back over to Stranger and waited while he dug around in the saddlebag, producing the linen satchel she'd packed. “Are you hungry?” she asked him, and her hands found what she was searching for under the handkerchiefs it was wrapped in.

He took another drink of the wine, briefly examining what she was doing. “Aye,” he replied, before searching the horizon again through the trees.

She worked at the knot on the kerchief, tugging until she could access the contents. There was the pewter goblet Shae had delivered, the grapes inside it to keep them from being crushed, and the bread and cheese. She took out the goblet and the slices of pear at the bottom and handed everything else to him. “Here, eat what you like.”

He caught it absently, his attention directed at scouting. It was only after she was crouched at the stream, collecting the cold water in the goblet that he looked down. “Smart bird thought to pilfer.” There was hint of pride, or was it surprise, maybe, in his voice. Something she didn't often hear, anyway. It softened his rasp, and she decided not to tell him that, because it was actually rather nice.

“I didn't _pilfer_. That was going to be my dinner anyway, I just took it with me.” Finished with her collecting, she walked over to one of the moss-covered rocks and sat down, taking a hearty sip and calming her nerves finally.

“Well, whatever you want to call it...” he said as he settled on one of the boulders next to her.

She held out the pear slices to him, “Do you think Stranger would like these? They likely won't last long since they're already cut.”

He regarded them, then looked to Stranger as if to ask. The horse snorted his answer. “Probably.”

He plucked them out of her hands and made his way over to Stranger, holding out the slices for him. One bite and they were all gone, and she was reminded again of her family. How her brothers would devour their food in seconds, it seemed. The thought brought another wave of melancholy and she stared blankly down at her goblet.

“We should get going, little bird.”

 

They climbed back onto Stranger and lurched forward again, back on the deer trail they'd been following through the wood.

 

* * *

 

She stared at the piece of bread in her hand, the one he'd put there and said _eat, little bird. You'll feel better for it._ But the thought of any kind of food still churned her stomach. _Not after the pie…_ She clasped it in her palms, saving it for later maybe, and set her eyes on the never-ending stream of trees they were passing. It was so quiet out here without the constant buzz of the city or the castle, and it was deafening. If for no other reason, they needed something to talk about to pass the time. And to get her mind off her family.

“Sandor?”

Grunt.

“What made you do it?”

He looked back at her over his shoulder for a moment before turning back to the trail. “Do what?”

“Rescue me,” she tried.

“I didn't rescue you.”

“You may not think you did. But you did,” she assured, and he turned to look at her again.

“Tired of liars.”

“Oh.” She didn't know what she'd expected, but it seemed like a hollow answer. “Why now?”

“Quit your chirping, girl.”

She looked down at her lap, at the rind of the bread in her hands. “I'm not chirping, I'm making conversation.”

“Which is chirping.”

She rolled her eyes at him behind his back. _Why must he always be so insufferable?_ Her back was sore and her bottom ached from sitting on it all day, and the sun was sinking further through the trees as they plodded along. Wherever they were going, it wasn't quickly, that was for sure. Speaking of which, where _were_ they going? She didn't know much about navigation, but at least she'd known the orientation of the castles she'd been in, and judging by the way the sun moved over those, and the way it was moving now… it looked as if they were headed due west. And that couldn't be right.

“Where are we going?”

“I told you, north.”

“But we're headed west.”

“I didn't say _due_ north, now did I, girl?”

“No...”

“And if we headed due north, we'd be on the Kings Road, which is where they'd be looking for us.”

She hadn't really thought about it that much. But he had a point. They were fairly deep in the woods, it seemed, and so far there had only been the one sighting of a search party. For all his brutishness, it seemed he had a head on his shoulders. The phrase reminded her of something her mother would say, and she felt another wave come on.

“Do you think we could stop for the night?”

“Another league, and we'll stop. The more distance we can do, the better.” His tone was matter-of-fact, and she tried to remind herself that it was only she that wasn't used to riding for such long periods of time. Or of feeling emotions. _It must be nice to be numb._ She crossed her arms and fixed her eyes off in the distance again, reminding herself that she'd just have to put up with him being grumpy. At least she was safer now, and that was all that mattered.

 

* * *

 

He eventually found a place that he was happy with after about another hour or so, and she was glad when he finally lifted her down off Stranger. The stream was still on their left like it had been all day, and the trees had grown quite thick on their right. Under the trees on the other side of the stream was a clearing that looked much more appealing to sleep on than the stony ground they were presently standing upon.

She stood expectantly by the water as he secured Stranger and worked at the ties of the bedroll. With difficulty, she resisted asking him what his plan was; _where are we sleeping? When are we leaving again tomorrow? Where are we headed?_ If the past few years knowing this man had taught her anything, it was that he would let her know what he was thinking in his own time, and not a moment before. She would just have to be patient.

Her pondering was relieved when he handed her the bedroll and nodded across the stream to the clearing. “We'll sleep over there tonight.” She'd only made it a step toward the water before he passed her, straddling the water and holding out his hand to help her over. _If he weren't such a grump, he might actually be a gentleman._ But as his hands found her waist and he lifted her gently across the stream, placing her neatly on the dry soil on the other side, she found she couldn't think of any other instances that that might be true. She couldn't think of a time when he'd been particularly _gentle_ with any one else.

She found a nice spot in the grass under one of the gnarled oaks and rolled out her makeshift bed. It was still difficult to get comfortable on the ground, but she settled onto the thinly-padded mat and arranged her skirts around her, sitting as prettily as she could. _I can still be a lady, even if we're out in the woods. Let it be my shield._

Sandor had gone back over to his horse, and she watched him again as he cared for the animal. First, the saddle and blanket came off, put to rest on a nearby tree. Then brushing along the length of him, then over to the other side, then the hooves. A pat on his neck and a scratch behind his ear, and then he was digging in the saddlebag for something. She watched him hop over the water, the wineskin in one hand and her bag in the other. He handed it to her when he got near enough and left her to make his bed. “I didn't know if you'd want anything else out of there...” he explained, a little shyly.

“Thank you.”

He turned away from her, but she saw his head bob as he nodded in response. ' _You're welcome,'_ she silently corrected him. She watched as he tramped a circle into the grass, then settled down cross-legged in the middle of it, arranging his sword next to him and popping the cork out of the wine skin.

Minutes ticked by, and she tried to resist the urge to say something. It was just out of habit and courtesy. It was in her nature to entertain and be ladylike, and she felt aloof just sitting there in silence. She'd just started to open her mouth to say something when she saw him do the same.

He furrowed his brow, obviously churning his words around before he said anything. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and waited for him to speak. He took a deep breath and exhaled rather loudly before he looked over at her. His grey eyes were unreadable, and her heart thudded with uncertainty as to which emotion she should let through as they bubbled up.

“You asked why I did it.” It didn't seem like he wanted a response, and so she watched as he worked out what to say. “And I said I was tired of liars.” He broke away from her eyes, looking to Stranger as something to occupy his sight.

The seconds ticked by, and she waited for him to elaborate, caught in between wanting to fill in the silence and just letting him speak. He finally seemed to decide whatever it was he was going to tell her, and he looked back over at her again. “They lied to you.”

_I knew_ that _. They've always lied, they lie to everyone._ She remembered his words to her when she'd first entered into their world: _They're all liars here, and every one better than you._ “I know,” she replied simply. That much was obvious, but why he was hemming and hawing about whatever he was trying to say was beyond her.

“Your family's still alive.”

Her heart stopped, and there was a clenching in her chest that was more than a little uncomfortable. She waited for the nausea to come again, but it remained at bay, if only for the time being.

“At least your mother and brother,” he clarified. His voice was calm and even, quite contrary to the storm of emotions that had surged through her walls. She felt the tears rising in her eyes and the sting in her nose as they started to fall, and she thought about how _cruel_ this was of Joffrey to play this jape on her. _How absolutely horrible to drag this on so long_ , and to use someone that she held, albeit in her head, in the highest of confidences.

“Why must you be so cruel?” she managed through her tears as the sobs started to come. It was the other day all over again.

“What?” Of what she could see through the water in her eyes, his face solely betrayed confusion. There was no look of surprise or panic or anger at being caught, and it struck her as odd that there wouldn't be anything of the sort.

“What do you mean, ' _what?_ ' Joffrey sent you to me, playing on this _awful_ jape he started, just to torture me!” She wiped at her tears, hot and undammed, streaming down her cheeks. “And I _trusted_ you!”

She knew it was rude of her to just walk off, but she found that her feet had carried her downstream before she'd even realized it. It was only when she felt his massive hand catch her arm that she spun around to look at him. She was almost nose-to-nose with him, and she saw upon such proximity the way his scars twisted grotesquely as he glared at her.

“What did I just say?” There was a storm in his eyes that she hadn't seen since he'd rescued her from the breadriots; since he'd pulled her almost-rapist of her and gutted him. “I _hate_ liars, and I wouldn't lie to you.” He let go of her arm for punctuation. “Your mother and brother are alive, and as far as I know, they're in the Riverlands with the Northern host. _That's_ where we're going. I _know_ we're going west, but if you'd be patient, and trust _me_ , too, then you'd see.”

He left her standing with her mouth open and eyes wide as he stalked back over to the circle of his bed, angrily grabbing the wine skin. She waited, rooted to her spot, while the sparks of his anger fizzled out and she stopped shaking. She hadn't even realized she'd been shaking until she saw him looking over at her, a twinge of concern just under the surface of his scowl.

After a while, she settled back down on the bed roll and looked over at him. _So I'm really going home. And this is the man taking me back to my family_.

Satisfied that she was no longer shaking, he went back to glowering at the trees and silently gulping his wine. _He deserves more than my judgment_.

“Thank you.”

He shot her a sideways glance, not really turning his head.

“So then what's your plan, Sandor?” She made sure to throw his name on at the end, because it appeared he liked it when she did, and anything she could do to regain his favor would go a long way at this point, it seemed.

“Don't really have one,” he replied in between drinks. He tipped the wine skin vertical, disappointed that it wasn't bottomless. “West for now, then north until we can cross the river to get to where they're camped.” He tossed the empty skin aside and rested his arms over his knees. “I can't tell you to trust me, little bird, but I'm not going to hurt you. I think you know that.” He looked at her pointedly, and she knew it was true. Of all the people she'd ever met, her family included, this giant, perpetually angry, horrifically scarred beast of a man next to her was the only one who truly ever wanted her to just be safe. Safe, and that was it. And she knew that man and the sword next to him would guarantee it.

“I know.”

He nodded, the only form of an answer it seemed she was going to get. “Get some sleep, Sansa. Another long day tomorrow, and another after that.”

She wiggled down until her body was pressed into the hard ground, her bag under her head as a makeshift pillow. She studied his features in the dying light, the way his eyes were trained off in the distance, scouting for trouble and on guard. The way his armor shifted when he tensed at a sound in the background. The way he almost seemed to soften as he checked on her one last time before her eyes slid closed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action! Adventure! [ A map!](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/b7/a8/6a/b7a86a487f44c44412f6ad76aba1ea89.png) I'm going to try to update the map after each chapter (so I'll put last chapter's events in the next chapter's map). It's more for my reference, but I figured as long as I was doing it, I would link it here.  
> [Chapter inspiration](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/d8/8c/4d/d88c4de2be1726bb86cf2088e794af27.jpg)  
> Also, I'm imagining the area around King's Landing/vicinity to be similar to that of the type of environ I live in, which is dominantly coast live oak forest. When they move out of that, it'll be more sparsely oak grasslands, etc. :)
> 
> Hope you like it, and thanks to the, like, 6 people that've been commenting. I love ya (and everyone else, too!)!

He waited in the blackness of night for sleep to come, but he was still too on-edge to let his guard down enough to let it claim him. The little bird had drifted off some hours ago, and he'd watched her until her breaths came deep and steady, and her eyes roamed in her dreams under the faint moonlight. It was good that she was able to get some rest after what she'd been through. But he reminded himself as he stared at the stars through the trees that he needed to get some too, or else he'd be useless to her come morning. And keeping her safe was paramount. Couldn't do that with the dulled senses of exhaustion.

Not long after he shut his eyes, just barely reaching out to pull down the blinds of his consciousness, he heard her moving about on her bedroll and snapped his eyes open in panic. Surely, the buggering Goldcloaks had found them again, and sneaking around in the dead of night would be just the way to do it, wouldn't it? He'd let his guard down, and now look what happened. He instinctively reached for his sword and began to draw it out of its sheath, then he saw in the dim light that there was no one about. The night was still, a cricket or two off in the distance squeaking out their song. Surely they would quiet if there was someone there.

Still, she tossed and he squinted over at her to see what was wrong. She didn't look hurt or ill or otherwise incapacitated. _Probably a nightmare._ He felt sorry for the girl, for being so innocent and having to endure to so much. The little voice in the back of his head reminded him that he'd been through much worse. _But she's a lady, and ladies shouldn't have to._

He put his head back down and listened to her torment, feeling a pang of guilt and ineptitude not being able to chase away those demons for her. But just as he wouldn't know what to do with a glass made of fragile cut crystal, he had no idea how to console her or make it better.

Her movements ceased and silence stretched on until he heard her soft voice, barely a whisper in the night.

“Ambrose. Arryn. Ashford...”

_The bloody fuck is she saying?_

“Baelish. Ball. Banefort...”

_Oh._ She was making her way through the houses. Clever girl. Figuring out a way to divert her attentions to something as tedious as reciting the houses. He'd half a mind to tell her to quit her chirping so he could get some sleep, but he found that the sound of her voice breaking up the crickets was actually rather pleasant, and before she could make it to the C's, he'd fallen asleep.

 

* * *

 

The sleepy morning mist hung in the air as he saddled Stranger, careful not to make too much noise lest he wake her up. She was sound asleep across the little stream in between them, sprawled out over the mat with her hair in a mess, quite unlike the lady he'd always seen. It had amused him when he'd woken up at the first rays of dawn to look over and see her slumbering face, slack-jawed and pressed awkwardly into her linen bag, a little puddle of drool soaking into the fabric. It would have been enough to make him laugh, if Hounds were capable of such a thing. Instead, his face settled on a twitch somewhere between a smile and a smirk, and he left the odd feeling of it in the grass next to her.

 

Now, as Stranger made his way over to the stream, drinking eagerly at the sweet water, he convinced himself that he'd eventually have to wake her up, and now was as good a time as any. They needed to get on the road, anyway. _More ground to cover._

But how? Surely if he physically woke her, she would realize the state she was in and be utterly embarrassed. _Which would be funny_. But considering how the events of last night had played out, he wagered it might be better not to make a jape at her expense. If only to spare himself her scorn this early in the morning. He settled on coughing rather loudly and unnecessarily, and soon enough he heard her gentle noises as she roused. She'd have no way of knowing, but the way she moaned as she stretched out in the grass had him thinking of what else might get her to elicit that sort of sound. He shook the notion away without another thought, and set about digging in the saddlebags, searching for the rations of food he'd brought along. It'd been nice to have what she'd thought to stash, but that had burned off quickly with his metabolism, and the dried meat he'd packed would serve him much better this time around.

He tossed a piece unceremoniously into her lap when he went to collect his wineskin, searching in the tall grass for _that blasted thing_. She said her thanks to him, her courtesies regained as soon as her eyes had opened. In the space of time that his back had been turned to her, she'd smoothed down her pretty hair, weaving it into a plait as expertly as he wielded his sword. It was as if those stolen moments earlier hadn't even happened; she was back to looking like the Lady she was.

He was over at the stream, rinsing the remnants of the wine out in the water and filling it up with something that she'd drink, too. There wasn't even a drop of the sour stuff wasted, though. He'd checked. He heard her faintly chirping behind him, dithering in the grass before quietly requesting his attention.

“Excuse me, but… um...”

“What, girl?”

“Is there somewhere to…” He could see the hesitation on her face, plain that she didn't want to say whatever she was thinking. “Where do I...” she lowered her eyes to the ground, ashamedly, and whispered, “Where do I go to _make water_?”

Her embarrassment was infectious, as he thought of how improper it was to be talking about such a thing with a highborn maiden. But the reality of their situation made him laugh at her. The bark that escaped him startled her, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. “Gods, girl, you're going to have to get over that if you're to be camping in the woods with a dog.” He pointed off to the trees behind their makeshift beds. “There's as good as any. Don't be long, we need to get going.”

 

* * *

 

All morning long, she'd been chittering about something or another from the back of the horse, all irritation from the previous night apparently forgiven. It seemed she was in renewed spirits, and the anticipation of seeing her family again had her in good spirits. For once in his miserable life, he allowed himself to feel a little bit of it, and actually found that he wasn't cutting her answers short when she'd ask him questions. He still tried to keep his attention on the forest, but every once in a while, he'd manage a story or two. Mostly battle stories. But she was kind and let him tell them without reprimand of inappropriate conversational topics.

Now that the sun was high above them, the light illuminating the thin leaves of the canopy above them like stained glass, the forest had gone eerily quiet. She chattered on behind him, and he reached back to touch her knee, silently telling her to stop. Her soft voice abruptly cut off, and he could feel her shifting about to take in their surroundings like he was doing. Something was wrong.

He cursed himself for not noticing it before, but there, right underneath his own horse's hooves were the fresh tracks of another. Several fresh tracks. There were soldiers about somewhere, and he needed to find them before he no longer had the upper hand. Or maybe he already didn't. He instinctively grasped onto the hilt of his sword, prepared to unsheathe it in seconds if the need occurred.

It was another quarter of a league or so until the trees thinned out enough that he could truly scout the horizon, and off in the distance, he saw a plume of camp smoke. Just as he'd thought. Soldiers. He debated whether to leave her here with Stranger and run ahead to sort the problem out by himself, but as they stalked along the stream, following the tracks underneath them, he reasoned that she wouldn't be safe unless he could physically see her. Leaving her off in the woods by herself, even if she had Stranger, would be too much of a risk.

He'd settled on the best course of action by the time the group was in eyesight, and passed on the plan to Sansa. She'd have to play along. _And don't scream._ Surprisingly, she agreed, albeit uneasily, and with much trying to coerce him along a kinder course of action.

Casually, they rode up to the men, and he quickly evaluated the situation. Four around a campfire, focused too intently on the animal roasting over it to notice them approaching. One, who looked to be a squire, a few yards behind them taking a piss. That one looked up first, his face slowly making out the figures approaching him, and then the shiny red leather of his armor crunching as he made to draw his sword.

But he wasn't quick enough. In one fluid motion, Sandor was down from his mount, covering the distance between where he'd been and where he was going in the span of mere seconds. The soldiers were on the ground before they knew what hit them, clasping desperately at their necks as if it would do any good. They were smooth, quick deaths, he reminded himself; something that he knew he'd have to explain to Sansa as soon as he was done. The last one put up more of a fight, having more time than the seated ones to prepare himself, and he swung at the skilled warrior in a frenzied attempt at combat. But a squire was no match to a veteran, and his sword sunk easily into the boy's belly when he made to parry one of Sandor's swings.

He bent down to wipe the blood off his weapon with the squire's cloak and, satisfied at the cleanliness he'd achieved, turned to look back at the girl. Her normally pleasantly-flushed cheeks were snow white, her eyes wide and hand clasping at her mouth, though she made now sound as she'd been insturcted. Stranger munched at the grass under him as if nothing had even happened.

“It's done now, girl,” he assured her as he stooped to pick through the soldiers' things. Her eyes remained locked on the men slumped over the logs around the fire. He thought briefly whether to take her down from the horse, but thought better of it. She wouldn't want to. Not with the blood on the ground. And she likely wouldn't want him touching her with the blood that was quickly drying on his hands. He thought about washing it off in the stream behind him, and turned to her. “Will you stay put up there?”

She nodded silently, her expression still in shock, and he went about cleaning off the red on his hands in the stream. He heard her wretching as he scrubbed under his nails, and he made a mental note that maybe he should've at least put her behind some trees or something to shield her view. But it was in the past now, and she would have to get over it. There would be plenty more such instances, he was sure, and he wouldn't always be able to prevent her from seeing it.

He went about untying their horses, giving them each a smack on their rumps to send them whinnying into the forest, and then the smell of the rabbit on the spit wafted over to him.

He remembered the growling in his stomach he'd been trying to ignore the past few hours, and he casually stepped over the soldiers' bodies to pick it off the fire. He tried to offer her some when he swung back up on the horse, but the queasy look on her face was enough to tell him that she wasn't interested.

 

* * *

 

It was a quiet afternoon after that. She was no longer in a mood to carry on a conversation, and he found himself almost missing it. At least hearing her voice and the thread of cautious happiness that was in it this morning.

But he reasoned with himself that he had to do it, whether she liked it or not, because they'd have been vulnerable to attack if he hadn't. And her safety mattered more to him than her shifting moods, though he'd much prefer she were happy than as sullen as she was currently.

 

* * *

 

 

The slow descent of the sun heralded the need to find another place to sleep, and he carefully selected a patch of level ground under the gnarled oak trees similar to what he'd settled on last night. She started to come around as she watched him gather sticks, carefully choosing the straightest ones he could find.

“Do you need help?”

He considered for a moment. It wasn't a particularly difficult or skilled task. And he'd sooner have help than shirk it, even if she _was_ a lady, and he was supposed to be looking after her, and she shouldn't really be doing such tasks. _Better to give her something to do, though._ “If you'd like,” he rasped, without taking his eyes off the ground.

She raised from her bedroll, dusting off her cloak. “What is it you're looking for?”

“Sticks for arrows,” he answered, handing her some examples. Along the ride after killing those soldiers, he'd decided it might be best to find a weapon he could use at a distance, even though his archery skills were more than a bit rusty. He didn't _have_ to use it, he knew, but better to have it and not need it than the other way around. And besides, he could always hunt deer or smaller game. Eventually they'd run out of the dried meat he packed, and there may not be a good opportunity to gather more supplies for a while. “Look for the straightest ones you can.” He looked up at the wavering limbs above him, “Oak's not the best, but it'll have to do.”

She set about her task, holding her cloak to her in one hand while she stooped to scour the ground for quality specimens. “Why isn't it a good wood?”

“Heavy,” he answered simply.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because the arrow won't carry very far.”

“Why don't you use a lighter one, then?”

She was suddenly full of questions that he didn't think really mattered. She'd asked him for something to do, he'd given it to her, and now she still wasn't satisfied with just working on that. _Always chirping_. “Do you see any other kinds of trees, bird?” he ground, spreading out his arms with the sticks in one hand, and motioning to the forest around them.

“No,” she hesitantly tried.

“Then we're stuck with oak for now.”

“You don't need to be so mean about it,” she said quietly.

He rolled his eyes behind her back, wishing that perhaps she could change the topic to something that actually meant something, instead of her questions. It wasn't that he wanted her to stop entirely, just maybe talk about battles, or wine, or… whoring… Something he was interested in, and not the content of the forest.

_But I guess birds like trees…_

 

That night, they'd dined one more of the dried meat, and to his surprise, she hadn't complained. He was glad of it, the way his temper had flared up with the sticks. They sat in a pile next to him, and he worked at their bark with the small knife he carried tucked into his boot. He'd begrudgingly made them a fire when she asked, feeling a little spiteful that he'd managed to fall prey to those round blue eyes when she said she was cold. He thought of other ways to keep her warm as he looked across the fire to her sitting in the grass, combing absently through her hair as she took it out of the plait. _She is a highborn maiden, you cur. Stop thinking about defiling her._ She looked up as he internally scolded himself, the look on her face one of absolute innocence, as if to drive the point home.

_This is going to be a long journey…_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Southern Riverlands/West Crownlands](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/79/88/0d/79880d378c6b19c61b6fb716c1ace4fb.jpg)   
>  [The Inn](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/ef/fc/8f/effc8ff1032161bbdc4238f1a7475c84.jpg)
> 
> Also, I forgot to put this as a note when I posted this an hour ago, so: let's not hate Sandor. There's a grey area for everything. And I'll leave it at that. :D

_Well, he certainly didn't lie_. He'd once told her that no one would hurt her, or he'd kill them. That he would keep her safe. And if that morning's events were anything to judge that sentiment by, he had been quite right in assuring her such things.

It hadn't been much later than very early morning when the soldiers had come. She'd been awake for a little while, having made a mental note the day prior that she needed to wake before him so he didn't see her in the unseemly state she'd been in yesterday. Her hair was neatly pulled in a braid again, and she'd run her hands over her face to smooth out the lines that her improvised pillow creased into her cheeks. Her skirts had been adjusted, tucked along her legs to preserve a little more heat in the chilly overnight temperatures. Sandor had let the fire die without even throwing another log on after he'd set it up. _No fire_ , he had said. She knew he'd only lit it in the first place because she'd begged him to.

And then as she lay there with her eyes closed and listening to the birds waking up, she heard a crunch of leaves in the trees behind her. The birds ceased their song, Stranger stamped a hoof, and Sandor woke up out of a dead sleep, sitting up and drawing his sword in the same movement.

It had been quick. At least there was that, she reminded herself. She could say many things about Sandor Clegane, but namely it was his skill in dealing death that people would believe. He'd had the soldiers on the ground before he even broke a sweat. Six of them, there'd been. More than last time. She wondered if perhaps the others had been found, and that was why the increase in numbers. Likely. She wondered if they had families. Babes. A life that they'd left behind to become Lannister soldiers. _Soldiers of the Crown_. She tried to remind herself that it was better them than her, but it didn't settle well in her. It wasn't better them than her. Truly. Her life was not worth the ten lives that had been taken in the last few days. Eleven if you counted the Hound.

  

* * *

 

It was a melancholy past time of hers now to count, for wont of another activity.

Twelve days.

Eight streams they'd forded.

Two roads; one narrow, one well travelled, although luckily they'd gotten there when no one else was about.

One hundred and eighty-two times she'd thought about her family.

As many about the families of the men her guardian had felled.

 

The record-keeping was of little consequence, however. The days would continue to tick by, the streams and roads and leagues as well. Unfortunately, the body count, too. And there wasn't much she could do about thinking of her family. _Soon enough_ , she told herself. _Soon enough._

 

* * *

 

They'd run out of the last of the provisions a few days ago, and now they were having to stop earlier in the day for Sandor to be able to set snares for something to eat. Sometimes it would work, and others it wouldn't, and more often than not they would go to bed with empty bellies. The look of disappointment on his face killed her every time he would check a snare and find it empty. She supposed he thought that it meant he was failing her. _In a way, yes. But I am safe and sound, and he's kept his word_. She would try to remind him of it as they sat at the fire she'd insisted on every night, but he would just grunt her a reply each time. It rather felt like trying to pound her head through a stone wall, trying to get through to this man.

He'd announced that morning before they set off that they'd be passing through a village by the end of the day. That they'd be camping on the outskirts. A brief run in to get supplies, and then back out in the wood.

But as she perched on the back of Stranger, her legs lolling about as he carried them through the forest, she tried to think of a way to gently tell Sandor that she'd rather stop for more than just supplies in town. It had been more than a sennight since she'd had a proper bath, and the same could be said for him. The smell of her dress was almost enough to overwhelm her. It wasn't so much _her_ that was bad, but she'd been sitting on a horse every day, and wandering around in the dirt, and sitting in front of campfires, and it was _time_ to get it off and scrub the dirt out of it and off of her.

“So what do we need to pick up in the village?” she queried, and then thought to add _besides food,_ because that much was obvious. Her stomach growled angrily at the notion.

“Silk thread and wax for these,” he tapped at the bundle of sticks tied to the saddle behind him, the little wall that he'd put in between them out of the blue a few days ago. “A bow if I can find one. Arrowheads. A blanket for you and a bed roll for me…” He quieted, mulling over his list. “Wine,” he added, satisfied with the assortment of goods.

“Do you think, perhaps… we could stay at an inn?”

He twisted around to look at her. “ _Why_?”

“Because it would be nice to sleep in a bed instead of the ground,” she offered.

“Haven't heard you say anything about it.” She hadn't realized he'd been paying attention. _I wonder if it would have even mattered if I had._

“I didn't want to complain.”

He considered her for a moment before settling back on that phrase that was starting to annoy her: “You'll just have to get used to it.”

This wasn't working. “I need a bath,” she conceded.

“Aye, that you do.” He smirked at her when she glared at him, and it occurred to her that it was the first time he'd playfully japed with her. She knew he didn't mean it.

“You're not too great, either.” Her eyebrows raised at him in mild defiance. “ _Ser,_ ” she added.

“We'll see, little bird.” He didn't explain any further, but she knew what he meant. _We'll see how many people I have to kill to get you a bath._ Not that he minded, but he was starting to catch on to how it was weighing on her, and apparently that got lumped into keeping her safe. Her mental safety was equal with her physical safety, evidently, and she noticed he was trying to accommodate. Despite the body count she'd wracked up.

 

* * *

 

Stranger munched happily at the little patch of grass next to his tie while Sandor crouched down in the underbrush and scouted down the hill at the town nestled into the valley below. They were just at the edge of the forest, and she could see the expanse of hills stretching off into the distance, the same color gold their owners were famous for. The little dots of oaks studded into the grass were vastly more sparse than the ones they were currently nestled into.

“So what do you think?” she asked, taking up a spot behind him and peeking through the branches. “Think it's safe?”

“Safe enough to get supplies,” he rasped. She thought she detected a tinge of disappointment in his voice. “Not sure about staying the night yet.”

“What's the plan if we get down there and it turns out it's not safe?” He just looked at her like she was the most dense child he'd ever encountered. _Same thing he's been doing._ “Oh.”

Satisfied after studying the layout of the town, of exit strategies in case they needed to escape quickly, and of possible places that might work to cage her should the potential fighting become too raucous, he placed her back up on the saddle, and they made their way down the gentle hill into the village.

 

* * *

 

The innkeeper eyed Sandor warily from behind the long, dark stretch of wood that served as the bar. He was trying to secure a room for them, but the proprietor seemed unwilling. Whether it was the reputation of his face or their fugitive status having spread this far out, she didn't know.

“All I'm saying, ser, is that I don't want any trouble,” the short man flapped, the wisps of white hair atop his head fluttering when he shook his head to and fro to emphasize the point.

“I am no _ser_ ,” Sandor ground out. She wondered how many times he'd said that in his life.

“I beg pardon… m'lord,” he tried. “But I'm afraid-”

Sandor slammed his fist down on the counter, accidentally raising the attention of the inn's patrons in his anger. “You'll ready a room for us.” The look in his eyes could have burned a hole through the innkeeper's head, and the round old man hurriedly nodded his frightened acquiescence. “And a bath for the lady. And dinner,” he added, and pressed a gold coin into the counter with his thumb. “You don't want any trouble, and neither do we, and there won't be any unless _you_ cause it.”

The man stammered, shakily reaching out for the coin. “Y-yes m-m'lord. I'll have Tylla fetch you that r-right away.” Thankful for the excuse to run away, he went off, apparently, to find the girl.

The pair led them up the stairs at the back of the crowded dining area, Sandor's head on a swivel as he climbed, and Sansa's stomach a-twitter at the anticipation of hot water to soothe her cramped muscles. At the end of a long, narrow hallway, the innkeeper handed a key to Sandor and motioned to the door they were in front of.

“This is the only one we have,” his eyes darted nervously from the door to Sansa, trying to avoid looking at the big man looming over him. “I'll have Tylla bring up some water for your bath, my lady.”

Sansa nodded her thanks, smiling at the man as he quickly disappeared down the hall with Tylla in tow. Sandor glowered for a moment, and she decided not to ask what his problem was. He twisted the key in the knob and swung the door open for her.

The room was small, but efficient, with a modest hearth at one end and a low bed under a window at the other. _Just one bed…_ she wondered how that was going to work.

“I'll get the things from the horse,” he made to move down the hall. “Lock the door and don't open it for anyone.”

“And how should Tylla bring the water for the bath then?” she asked his back. He turned to her, reaching for the dagger at his belt.

He handed it to her and gave her a pointed look. “Just me and her, then. And if you feel threatened, use this and bar the door.”

“I don't know how to use this.” The dagger felt heavy and wrong in her hand, and it terrified her that she might actually have to use it.

“Aim for the neck,” he motioned to the point on his neck just at the juncture of his shoulder. “It's likely the easiest for you. If you can't get that, eyes. If neither, slash and hack and scream, and I'll-” _come running?_ “-be here as soon as I can.”

She nodded her understanding, though the churning in her gut signified her unwillingness to do it. He turned without another word and disappeared down the hallway.

 

 

* * *

 

Tylla brought the water without incident, leaving behind their dinner as well on her last trip up. She thanked the girl, silently saying her praises that she hadn't attacked, and folded out the little screen that leaned against the wall so she could have some privacy from the door.

The wool of her dress was stiff with dirt and scratchy as she pulled it off, and her skin sighed a breath of relief at the contact of cool air on it. With a sinking feeling, she realized that she couldn't reach the ties of her corset, laced up her back. No matter how she contorted herself, her fingers wouldn't reach, and she thought how useless it really was. She'd always had a handmaiden to help her as long as she'd had to wear it, and now that she was free, it was just another sort of confinement she was trapped in. She pulled on her cloak backwards, with the opening just wide enough to access the ties, and sat on the bed to wait for Sandor to come back.

Soon enough, she heard his rasp on the other side of the door, and she let him in, stepping hurriedly out of the way as he dropped the saddlebags to the floor. He looked at her appraisingly.

“What in the seven hells have you got on? Do you not know how to wear a cloak, bird?” he chided, smirking at her unconventional fashion choice.

“I need help,” she explained, turning around so he'd have access to the ties. The cloak swished around her as she turned, and she could feel the rush of cold air on her exposed flesh.

She could hear him reel back as if she'd just burned him with the hottest fire. “ _Bugger me_ , bird. _No_. I'll go fetch the girl.”

As she waited for the girl to come back, she thought how odd it was how he'd reacted. Surely it wasn't the first time he'd seen her. And really, it wasn't even that much of her; just the top of her back. _Like he's never seen a naked woman, anyway_ , she thought bitterly. He was being childish. She could've been sinking into the steaming, quickly cooling water by now if he'd just untied it.

But instead, she waited for Tylla to come back, fending off her alarm when the girl saw the bruises stretching up her back. _No, I don't need you to tell anyone. No, he didn't do it. No, I'm fine._ It was sweet that the girl was willing to help her, but even if she had needed help, what did she expect to happen? Surely, they knew that was the Hound, and surely they knew he'd have them on the ground before they could call for backup. She sent the girl away with her dress, requesting that they might be able to wash it for her. She hoped that it would be back before they needed to leave, else she'd be down half of what she'd brought, and that wouldn't do. It was bad enough she only had the two, as it was.

 

 

* * *

 

The fire was but embers were glowing in the hearth by the time he returned to the door, barring it behind him. He wordlessly crossed the room over to her, and she faked being asleep, willing her breaths to stay deep and steady though her heart was pounding out of her chest. _Surely, he expects- Expects what, exactly?_ She'd thought for a while that surely he would eventually demand payment for rescuing her from King's Landing. She wasn't an idiot. She knew how he would look at her from over the fire at night, as she pretended not to notice and settled in on her bedroll. It was just a matter of when.

But he just leaned over her, bracing an arm on the wall and reaching out through the open window to retrieve the shutter. _Oh._ He was close to her, his body radiating is usual heat, but the only move he made to touch her was to pull the furs up over her shoulder . She could smell the residual sweat on his body, the sour reek of wine, the heady, sickly-sweet smell of jasmine, the musty scent of a woman, the… _Oh, gods._ She'd thought maybe he had just gone downstairs for an extended period of time to drink. That much she'd assumed. But apparently, she realized with an odd sinking in her stomach, that he'd gone off to… _enjoy the company_ … of someone else.

She listened to him as he stripped off his belt, turning around in her bed to look over at him, an accusation on her tongue ready to spit at him. Through half-shut eyes, she could see him cast a glance over at her, evaluating if she was awake now that she'd moved. But a curiosity rose up in her all of a sudden, and she continued with her ruse of slumber. _I've never seen a man before_ … Satisfied that she was still sleeping, he went about his task, working at the fastenings of his pauldrons.

She watched him until his tunic came off and he started working at the ties of his breeches. He'd turned out of her direct line of sight, and in the faint glow of the hearth, she could see the shiny new skin on his ribs, juxtaposed against the fur on his chest. All those months in the infirmary had resulted in a patch of skin the size of her hand, jagged along the edges but perfectly smooth in the middle. Evidently, the royal maesters were much more skilled at repairing wounds than those of Clegane keep. She took one last look at the huge man across the room from her, marveling that contrary to her original assumptions, the body underneath the armor was just as massive without it. The muscles in his shoulders flexed, his arms moving to push his breeches down, and she shut her eyes from the sight. _That's enough. You're a lady,_ she reminded herself. _And ladies don't look at things like that._ Besides, he'd given her her privacy, even though apparently that wasn't his main goal in leaving her. At least she could do the same.

 

 

* * *

 

He didn't take nearly as long as her in the tub that was too-tiny for him. Before long, he'd suited back up in his armor, dutifully washing the tunic he'd been wearing in the bath water and setting it next to the hearth to dry. She watched him lean up against the door, his arms folded across his chest and head leaning back on the wood.

She thought she'd been so clever in her acting, but she saw his eyes crack open to look her dead in hers. “Go to sleep, little bird. We've a long day tomorrow.”

She made a mental note that he always knew when she was lying to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Don't look at it before you've read through this chapter*  
> [Map](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/25/00/25/25002512d1d315e237336f248f26f6f6.jpg) I forgot to do one of these for up to chapter 10, and I didn't want to have to go through and erase what I'd done, because the program I was using was being a glitchy bitch.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pics!](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/4b/98/9e/4b989e3f72a6957e202d911c7bc6d85c.jpg)

* * *

He woke up to the soft patter of rainfall on the wood shakes, growing steadier as the seconds ticked on. Sleep had been quick and absolute; he'd no need to worry about anyone sneaking up on them in the night with the window shuttered and door locked, barred, and blocked by his body. He looked over to Sansa, sound asleep still, her delicate face smashed into the pillow and mouth hanging open. The exact position he'd found her in that one morning, the same one that he knew she woke up early now to hide from him. Her arm drooped off the side of the bed, exposed in the early morning air up to the cap sleeve of her shift. He raised, rubbing at the crick in his neck from his head hanging to the side all night. She didn't seem to wake when he tugged the fur back over her arm, or when he lit the fire because he knew she'd be cold and she'd pout.

And she still wasn't up by the time he'd run downstairs to get breakfast, or when he'd gotten back to the room balancing two wooden disks, piled high with fresh eggs and bacon, a mug hanging from his pinky, and a kettle of tea. He'd ordered her another bath, too, because after looking over one of the innkeeper's maps last night, it appeared they wouldn't reach another town for a while. And that meant cold splashes of water from the river, something he'd learned she tolerated, but secretly despised. She deserved what luxuries they could secure while they had them. _Ladies deserve luxuries._

He set the things down on the little table by the hearth and debated whether to wake her. But the food was cooling, and Tylla said she'd be there straight away. So he poured her a cup of tea and gently shook her shoulder, handing it to her when she blinked awake, her eyes sliding from him to the tea to the food on the table.

“'Morning.”

She looked down into the tea, mumbling the same sentiment back and sitting up. She pulled the furs around her, scrunching down into them and clasping onto her tea, staring blankly across the room as Sandor went to devour his plate. He offered hers to her, but she declined, frowning into the mug.

“I lost my appetite.”

_The fuck was that about?_ He knew that she was a peckish eater, but when he'd gone downstairs to get himself breakfast, he figured he may as well bring one back up for her, too. And while he'd normally find a nice Dornish red or the house ale to wash it down, he figured she'd prefer something… weaker. “Fine, suit yourself,” he shrugged, shovelling mouthfuls of food down his gullet. “I had the girl change out the water for another bath for you.”

She looked at him accusingly.

“What?” he said, indignant. _Do one nice thing, and…_

“Are you saying I smell already?”

“You know what- _bugger this_ .” He tossed his now empty plate on the table, grabbing the saddlebag and making for the door. _Just thought you would like something nice._

He stalked down the hallway, flying down the stairs and ran smack into Tylla, the bucket of water she was carrying crashing to the floor in a wet mess. She cowered away from him as he pushed past her. Evidently, the Hound preceded him.

Stranger was in a mood, too, when he went to saddle him. It was the most difficult he'd been since they'd left King's Landing, and Sandor's temper was building to a point where he'd _had enough of this shit._ “Just sit still, you bloody mule,” he ground, pulling on Stranger's reins so they were eye to eye. His cinnamon eyes were blazing, his ears pricked up in attention, and it was all he could do to get the horse to listen to him. “The _fuck_ is wrong with you?” The beast stamped his hooves, struggling to get free of his master's grip.

And then he saw what Stranger saw: a herd of Lannister soldiers riding up the narrow dirt road, heading straight to the inn. _Sansa._

 

 

* * *

 

“Just thought you would like something nice.” She knew by the softness in his voice that she wasn't meant to hear it. She probably wouldn't have if her ears hadn't been primed for keener listening, since her other senses were still dulled from sleep. And then she'd heard his bootsteps, hard and heavy and fleeting down the hall, and the crash of something downstairs, a door slam… She figured she should probably appreciate the things he'd brought for her, though she was still stewing over last night. _How_ could _he?_ Although she knew she had no right to pass judgment. It wasn't as if he was going to get it from her, and she'd been told so many times by her septa that that's how men were. Gods, from what she'd been taught, it was a miracle he hadn't pounced on her by now. Maybe it was because she smelled. He'd said as much when he said he'd had the girl bring up another bath for her. Last night, she'd pulled some of the rosemary and lavender down from the bundles hanging from the rafters and floated it in the water. _She_ thought she smelled _good._ But apparently not good enough for a Hound.

She grumbled into her mug of tea and sunk into the fresh water Tylla had provided, leaning her head against the uneven edge of the wooden tub. It didn't take long for her tension to ease, but whether it was from the warm water or the chamomile in her tea or the patter of rain on the roof- _it's been so long since I've heard rain_ \- she didn't know.

She could hear Stranger whinnying outside, which reminded her of Sandor, and she could feel her ire rising again, so she slipped under the water to block it out. It was quiet under there, and she could be alone with her thoughts, so she stuck her nose out just enough to breathe and stayed under.

 

 

* * *

 

Sandor strode from the horse stalls to the front door of the inn, covering ground faster than even he remembered he was capable of. The soldiers had dismounted and one was making for the door when he stepped in front of him, leaning an arm across the jamb of the door and effectively blocking their way.

From the back of the herd, a voice piped up, high and snivelling. “I thought we might find you here, _dog_.” The voice stepped up, accompanied by it's owner.

“ _Meryn fucking Trant._ ”

“The very same.” Sandor looked down his nose at the knight, who puffed out his chest to look bigger. He must've forgotten who his opponent was. “I've come to take the girl. Step aside dog.”

“ _The fuck_ you are.” Trant made to move through the door, but Sandor didn't budge. “How's that nose healing up?”

The knight flapped his mouth in indignation, trying to come up with a response.

“Insult her again and I'll break your jaw to match,” Sandor added, reminding him of the reason he'd acquired his now crooked nose in the first place.

“I've no wish to fight you, ser. Step out of the way.”

“ _SER?_ I'm no _ser_. Bugger that and the cunts who swear their vows,” he ground, spitting at Trant's feet.

A few of the soldiers behind him made to draw their swords, but Sandor was faster. Trant stepped aside like the coward he was, letting the others rush the bigger man and the non-knight raised his sword in action, easily deflecting the blows desperately being thrown at him. But he had his back turned to the door now, letting Trant easily slip inside.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Even through the water, Sansa could hear the clamor outside; the ring of steel clashing and Sandor's angry yelling. She stood and dried herself off, quickly digging in her bag to find her other dress to put on and trying to peek out the window.

All she could see were several horses grouped together in the rain, their bread collars displaying the unmistakable red and gold of the Lannisters. Their muddy legs kicked and stamped at the commotion on their right, just out of sight from the window. By the number of horses outside, she had a sinking feeling that perhaps her guardian was outnumbered. An unlikely thought, but still. Her heart fluttered and she wrung her hands, trying to decide what to do. Against all of her intuition, her fight response won out over her flight urges, and she grabbed the dagger he'd given her last night from under her pillow where she'd stashed it. She only hesitated a moment at the door, willing herself to calm her nerves as she lifted the bar…

 

 

* * *

 

 

The pile of soldiers on the ground quickly bleeding out, Sandor turned to check where Trant had gone. He knew he'd try something sleazy like that, but it was either turn to grab him and catch stab wounds to the back, proving himself utterly useless to the little bird, or dispatch the soldiers first and hurry to grab Trant after. Clearly, the latter had won. It wasn't difficult to see him through the crowd that had gathered in the dining room; his gold Kingsguard fuckery shone like a beacon in the dingy room.

Sandor ripped his way through the crowd to find Trant already detained by another man who'd surfaced out of the diners. The non-knight exchanged looks with the man, their grey eyes meeting over the twat's pretty golden helmet. Sandor glared at the other man, who stood his ground with his hand tucked into the neck of Trant's armor, restraining him.

Just then, Sansa appeared at the base of the stairwell, her still-wet hair soaking in to the deep navy of her dress. She took in the situation, Sandor with his hand on Trant's shoulder, the other man also restraining him.

“There she is!” the knight flapped, reaching out his arms as if to indicate of whom he spoke. “The Stark bi-” Sandor's fist connected solidly just under Trant's cheekbone.

“I told you I'd break your jaw if you insulted her.”

The cunt tried to say something through the blood gushing from his mouth, but his broken teeth slurred the words.

Sansa walked over to the group of men, coldly looking Trant in the eye. “It's okay, Sandor. For him to insult me, first I would need to value his opinion.” She handed Sandor back his dagger, no longer needing to have it on her person. “There's no need to kill him. There's nothing he can do to me now.”

“I don't think that's true, little bird,” he cautioned.

“He's good as dead when he gets back to his king empty handed and down that many men and horses, all for a girl and a dog.”

He was surprised by her measured coldness, but he could see the tears just under the surface of the frozen lakes of her eyes. Trant looked between the two of them, then over to the other man, then back to Sandor. “If you so much as touch her again, I will see to it that you're strung up by your own intestines.

For the first time, the other man spoke, “I've got him. You two can get out of here.” He nodded to the doorway, indicating the direction they should head.

Sandor eyed the man warily, but trusted that sooner or later, he would make good on his word to Trant. May as well get out of there, and besides, she'd as much as told him that the cunt wasn't worth the effort it would take to spill his blood. Though it would be a pleasure to sink his sword through him. Sansa walked past them, and Sandor turned to follow, his hand falling protectively on her shoulder.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the "transgression:" I'll get to that, but first, in the words of Steve Jessup,  
> 


	13. Chapter 13

 

* * *

 

“M'lord,” Tylla came running out to the stables, a bundle in her arms. Sandor rolled his eyes at the title. “M'lady. You forgot this.”

Sansa held out her arms to receive the bundle, which consisted of her linen bag, cleaned grey dress, cloak, and a package of cheese, dried meat and bread. Her things she would have expected to get back, but the food was a welcome treat. “What's this? Thank you,” she told the girl, who smiled broadly at the sentiment.

“I just thought you and m'lord-”

“Would you stop calling me that? I'm a _dog_ , girl. Not a lord.”

“I'm sorry, m'- um…” The girl faltered, unsure what to call him.

“Clegane,” Sansa supplied helpfully.

“I'm sorry… Clegane? I though you would like something for the road.”

“Oh, Tylla, thank you, that's very kind.” Sansa's courtesies were back, replacing the brief moment of slippage she'd had earlier. She regretted snapping at Sandor that morning, but he'd deserved it, didn't he? “We'd be happy to pay you for it,” she looked expectantly at Sandor, who in turn rolled his eyes at her again and made for his coin purse.

“Oh, no. We insist. To be honest, I could never stand those soldiers,” she said, hushing her voice to not be overheard. “They were… not kind people.”

Sandor picked the bag out of Sansa's hand, occupying himself with finishing readying Stranger instead of listening to the chirping.

“Well, I thank you again, Tylla. We should probably get on our way now, though...” she trailed off, looking to Sandor and waiting for him to lift her onto Stranger.

“Yes, yes, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hold you up, I-”

“It's quite alright.” Sansa nodded her head curtly, trying to hint that perhaps the girl should go away now. She caught on, scurrying away from them and back into the inn.

* * *

 

 

The rain continued to pour, and she was thankful Tylla had brought out her cloak. It may not have resisted the water much, but at least it was another layer in between her skin and the chilly air around them. Sandor on the other hand, devoid of any kind of protection aside from his armor, tried to maintain his eyesight by consistently pushing the hair plastered to his face out of his eyes.

They'd just passed through the little archway signifying the end of town, making to follow the little path that headed to the pasture lands and not the main road when the man from the inn caught up with them.

“Excuse me; Lord Clegane, Lady Sansa,” he called up to them from atop his chestnut. His leather armor was stained with the rain, his dark hair seemingly blacker with it, too. She thought reminiscently that he had the look of the north about him.

Sandor turned around to face him, if only to shoot needles through his eyes at the approaching rider. “I am _no lord,”_ he replied sternly to the man. Muttering under his breath, “How many times do I need to say that?” Sansa had just been wondering the same thing. She saw his right arm move subtly to his dagger as his hip, still staring the man down.

“I beg pardon.”

“What do you want?” Sandor grated, already wary from the turn of events that morning. She'd already apologized to him for calling him a dog, though not for being curt with him about… _that_ . But he'd just shrugged it off. ' _I knew what you meant._ _'_

“I wondered if I might have an audience with you,” the man flashed a brief smile at them, trying to make it known his intentions were pure.

“We've no time,” her guardian replied shortly, turning back to the road and ignoring him. Sansa tugged on his belt. _Don't be rude._

“Of course we do,” she said cheerily, trying to make up for the manners of the sulking hulk of a man in front of her. “So long as you're headed this way. I'm afraid we have no time to stop.” She hoped that would give them enough wiggle room to dismiss this man if he proved difficult. But something seemed familiar with him, and she wanted to hear what he had to say, to buy some time so she could put her finger on it. “Please pardon my companion.”

“Companion? Is this not your lord husband?”

“You must well and truly be living under a rock if you think that to be true,” Sandor said flatly, his eyes still on the road in front of them.

“I'm afraid I don't keep up with such things.”

“You couldn't figure out by the Lannister soldiers laying the pile that she's not _with_ me? How stupid are you?”

The man frowned, considering his words. It aged him when he did that, though he couldn't be more than Sandor's age. She'd seen this man before, she just knew it, but _where?_ “My apologies. I recognized Lady Stark, and I thought… well, that's neither here nor there,” he waved it away. “My lady,” he said, turning his attentions to Sansa. “I served with your brother in the war.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but Sandor filled her words. “Then why aren't you out there fighting with them?”

“Lord Stark, the King in the North, sent me to King's Landing on diplomacy terms.”

Sandor grunted, barely acknowledging the explanation.

“And how did it go, if I may inquire?” Sansa was every bit the lady, her hands clasped in her lap, posture straight and managing quite well to balance on the rump of the slippery horse under her.

The man teetered his hand in front of him. “So-so. Lord Tywin's coming around, I think. Another month or so, and I think we may have made some progress.”

That made Sandor turn around, glaring at the man. “ _Why_ are you telling us this? You don't know is from a couple of stones on the ground. For all you know, we could be spies for the crown.”

“Doubt it.”

“And what's your name? I didn't hear you offering that up,” he glared accusingly.

“Ser Edwyn, your- Clegane? Sandor? Hound? What do you prefer to be called?”

“Clegane will do.”

“I'm a knight of the North, my lady,” he bowed only just in his saddle, regarding her. “Like I said, I served with your brother Robb.”

“You look familiar. Where have I seen you?” She couldn't figure it out, and it was bothering her. He looked so familiar!

“I served in the Stark household, actually. Household guard.”

That must be it. It had been so many years since she'd been in Winterfell, she didn't remember all of them. He was probably-

“I was one of the ones that stayed behind to tend to your other brothers.”

“My brothers! Bran, Rickon!” Her face lit up at the thought. “How _are_ they?”

“Oh, they're fine. They're with your mother in Winterfell the last I heard, but I've been away for a while. That's just the last I heard from Lord Stark.”

“My father was 'Lord Stark.' I suppose it's my brother, now.”

“Yes, I know. I'm so sorry you had to go through that,” he reached over to pat her hand sympathetically.

Sandor shifted around uncomfortably in front of her. “I don't care if you're one of her childhood friends, Ser. You're too familiar,” Sandor scolded, and the knight pulled back his hand immediately.

“My apologies, my lady. I didn't mean-”

“It's quite alright. As I'm sure you can tell, my companion here has a bit of a temper,” she said, glaring at the expanse of armor on his back.

Sandor cut in, changing the subject. “And what of her brother. Where is he, now?”

“I'm actually headed there, if you would like me to accompany you,” he offered helpfully.

The non-knight glared at him again. “We've done just fine this long. And we'll do just fine from here. Just tell us where to find him.”

“I would feel much more comfortable accompanying you.” He nodded at Sansa, “My lady.”

She realized what he was insinuating, and was appalled that someone would assume that. Although, with the Hound's fearsome reputation, she supposed it made sense. “He wouldn't _hurt_ me,” she defended.

“Oh, no, I'm sure,” the knight assured. “I would just feel more comfortable...”

“Will we be rid of you if we say no?”

“Likely not.”

“Then the choices I have are to kill you,” Sandor unsheathed his dagger and pointed it at the man's throat. “Or put up with you.”

“Sandor,” she dropped a calming hand on his pauldron. “I don't see the need to kill him. Perhaps he can just accompany us for a little while? Until we get to Robb?”

“You mean the rest of the way,” he said over his shoulder.

“Well, I mean… unless we're going to Winterfell?” she said hopefully, trying, maybe, to convince him that perhaps he could stay, too. It wasn't like there was anything else out here for him. _Except wine and women_ , she remembered ruefully. The pit in her stomach had morphed into something similar to a bubbling mix of indignation and jealously, and she wasn't sure why the latter was in there. “Of course you're welcome to travel with us. If only for a while.” She smiled back at him, and the man's face returned the gesture. She wasn't sure if it was the jealousy in that swirling brew, or her desire to have a Northman with them that made her invite him along, but Sandor's exasperated huff felt quite satisfactory.

“By the way, what did you do with Trant?”

“He broke his vows.”

“Oh?”

“A man must have honor if he is to be a knight.”

“And you do?”

“I'd like to think I do.”

“So what of Trant?”

“He met a different Stranger than your beast here.”

“And how do you know my horse's name?”

“You're the infamous Hound, everyone knows his name.”

Sandor only grunted in reply, but she could tell by the way that he adjusted his shoulders that he approved of the knight's answers. Whether he trusted them was another matter, but the words, apparently, hit the mark.

 

 

* * *

 

Ser Edwyn was quite a ways ahead, scouting the horizon for potential dangers on one of the distant hills. Sansa was quiet, taking in the scenery and trying not to focus on how cold she was, truthfully not thinking much about how angry she'd been with him that morning. Sandor had been brewing, she could tell, and so she'd given up conversation with him several leagues back.

“So what's your problem?” he asked out of the blue.

She'd managed to push it so far into the recesses of her mind, explaining it away to herself, that for a moment she had no idea what he was referring to. She thought for a moment, considering her words.

“Was it this morning? With the bath?”

That just brought up another reason to be mad at him that she'd totally forgotten about. She could feel her anger rising, so she crossed her arms over her chest and glared out over the rolling hills, effectively giving him the silent treatment. Something her little sister Arya was good at, she remembered.

“I'm sorry, whatever it was. I didn't mean to make you think you smell.” She hadn't expected those words to come out of his mouth. Ever. _I just thought you'd like something nice_ . Her anger softened a little, melting as she replayed them in his quieted voice that morning. “You don't. I mean… you do. You smell nice...” he stammered over his words, _also_ something she never thought she'd hear coming out of his mouth.

“It's not that.”

He turned as far around as he could in the saddle, trying to meet her eyes.

“Then what is it?”

“Last night, you...”

“Got pissed drunk, I know.”

“No, you...”

“I didn't- did I?” She could see the alarm in his eyes, and she wasn't entirely sure what he thought he might have done.

“I- um… I'm not sure?”

“How can you not be sure?”

 _Oh, gods._ _What was she getting herself into?_

“I don't know what you think you did.”

“I didn't…” his eyes drifted off, failing to meet hers. “...hurt you, did I?”

“ _What_ ? No!” _Gods, the poor man. Was it even possible to get that drunk?_ “No, you didn't touch me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 _I swear to the gods, if I touched her, I will fall straight on my own sword_. But on second thought, then who would be there to protect her? Certainly not this pretty boy. He'd be surprised if he even knew how to fight. But Gods, the fuck was she so bent out of shape about? He tried to piece back the memories of last night, starting with before he'd found that flagon of wine, and then that other one, and that pitcher of ale… He'd gotten the things from the horse, every intention of resting against the door to wait for her to have her bath, when he'd walked in the door and she was half-naked… and then he'd started thinking about her. He remembered that. The flash-memory of his dreamt hands untying the laces of her corset, and he'd needed to get out of there. Downstairs was a bit fuzzy. He remembered the serving wench bringing him wine and the map he'd asked for, and then it got a little more hazy after the second helping of wine, and damned near impossible to remember past the ale… but there were bits: a proposition for a coin, an outstretched hand, expectant. A turned cheek, the soft flesh of a woman, a repulsed face, a hollow collapse. A disgust as he staggered back into the bedroom to see the perfect bird laying there. A memory of the times she'd looked at his face, taking all of it in.

“You… smelled of...”

“Don't judge someone because they sin differently than you, girl.”

“I'm not _judging…_ I just...”

“I'm sorry, little bird.”

He met her eyes, and he didn't need to explain, and she didn't need to ask.

The empty feeling he'd been left with and the churning pit of disappointment, of anger from the whore had not been worth the same amount as one simple look of acceptance from this creature seated next to him.

 

 

* * *

 

That night, drunk on his realization that he cared more about one stupid look from this little bird than he did the rutting of one of his favorite past times, he cornered Ser Edwyn. Sansa was warming herself next to the fire, working on some unknown womanly task, and he pulled the knight into the woods. He found himself with the knight pinned under his forearm, his gauntlet pressing dangerously close to the man's neck.

“If you so much as look at her sideways, I will not hesitate to stick this dagger through your eye.”

“I've no doubt. But truly, I'm not interested.”

Sandor glowered at the man, incredulous.

“How?”

“Married. Kids. Faithful.” The knight shrugged.

Sandor eyed him skeptically, but dropped his arm. “The threat still stands regardless of what you have at home. If you touch her, worse if you hurt her, be certain I will kill you in the most horrible of ways.”

The man nodded his handsome head, clapping an arm on the large man's shoulder. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I could have posted this last night... but then I did one of those things where I thought I would write more to it, only to erase what I'd added, and then I was going to make a picset, but then I couldn't find anything I wanted... and then I fell asleep.... So. You're getting it now! :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D
> 
> Sorry it took a bit. I always think that when I have days off, I'll have more time to write, and then I end up doing other things.
> 
> But fear not! I work tomorrow, so hopefully there'll be another update by at least Wednesday-ish.
> 
>  
> 
> [Aren't those some cool looking medieval pants?](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/34/1d/49/341d498cb62fe71504bc0359dc4e359d.jpg)

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“And the same goes for you,” the knight added, walking away from Sandor.

He could hear the big man growling behind him, but paid him no mind as he headed back to the camp. Sansa was in front of the fire, trying to dry herself off and working on her sewing. Even after all those years in that vipers nest, she still practiced her skills.

She looked up at them when they returned, Sandor grumbling off toward Stranger to retrieve his bedroll. Edwyn already had his set up just up the ridge from the little clearing they'd found. It was away from the fire, but he could keep an eye on that gruesome looking man, and besides, he was used to the cold of the North anyway.

“How's it coming along?” Sansa held up her stitching for him to inspect. “Ah, very good. You're a fine seamstress.” She beamed, the first time he'd seen her do such a thing in a long while. He snuck a look over to Sandor, who was watching them through the scowl on his brow as he laid out his mat. “So tell me, little wolf, how do you come to find yourself in the company of the Crown's loyal dog?”

“He's not a _dog_ ,” she scolded, placing her project back in her lap and returning to her task. “He rescued me.”

“Oh?”

“I'm still not entirely sure why he did it, but one night, he just decided he was going to take me home,” she explained simply.

“And you're not questioning his motives?” the knight inquired.

She thought for a moment, staring at the man on the other side of the fire as he determined the approximate distance from the flames that would suit him best. Settled on her answer, she returned to her stitching. “I did the first few days. But I know why now.”

“And that is?” the man pressed.

She shot him a charged look, “I'm not sure that's any of your business, ser.”

“I'm only looking out for you, Lady Sansa. It's in your family's best interest if you…” he thought for a moment, pondering the correct euphemism for what he was trying to convey. “If you're _safe_.”

That only served to rile her more, it seemed, because she pursed her lips together and glared at him. “Ser, you overstep your bounds. I hardly know you. You hardly know _him_ , and it's terribly improper for you to make such assumptions.”

“Lady Sansa, I'm only looking out for your well being,” he soothed.

“I realize that, but just as you don't know us, we don't know you, and I trust this man with my life- _and my honor_ \- and you'd do best to trust him, as well. I know he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize my future.” She let out a little huff and turned back to her work, turning her shoulder just enough to imply she was cutting off any further conversation.

“If you ever feel threatened, Lady Sansa, I'm right here. You'd just need to say the words,” he added as he stood to leave her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched away from him.

The path back to his bedroll led him past the huge man's bed, and he made sure to give him a pointed look on his way past, moving his index finger from his eyes over to the other man and back again. _I'm watching you._

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

_W ho the hells is_ he _to think that Sandor would hurt me?_ Sansa angrily poked at the fabric in her hands, no longer paying attention to the path that she was stitching. Though, she wasn't entirely sure herself what his motives were. Or what he would try if she let him. Like what she'd been thinking the other night at the inn, she wasn't an idiot: she knew how he looked at her. But she was completely sure that he wouldn't _hurt_ her.

The fire was getting too low for her to be able to see her stitches anymore, so she tied off her thread and folded it neatly, stashed away in her bag. She'd managed to pick up a few more things in town: some packets of herbs in case they ran in to trouble, soap, because the Gods knew river water wasn't getting them clean enough by itself, and the fabric and notions for her project. That would be done soon enough, perhaps just a few more days, and then she could be more comfortable while they rode.

She smoothed her hands over the skirt of her dress. _Almost dry_. She'd set out her cloak on an impromptu coat hook; a sturdy-looking branch jutting out of the ground just next to the fire. It would surely smell like smoke tomorrow, but for the time being, at least the heavy wool would be dry. It had mercifully stopped raining half-way through the day, and by the time the sun was hanging low under the ceiling of clouds, they'd managed to find a clearing that was dry enough to set up camp for the night. It was on the leeward side of the hill, Sandor had said, and so there had been less rain there that day. And the giant oak rooted into the hillside at its crooked angle shielded them a little from any rainstorms, with its branches spreading out far and wide over the little valley they were in. She looked over to the giant lump across the fire from her and she knew he wasn't asleep. It was still early yet for that; the stars hadn't even come out through the clear patches of sky. The new knight was up the hill from her, leaning against the trunk of the tree and watching them both. There was just something about him that didn't feel right.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

She lay on her bedroll, watching the clouds drift past the moon; in a moment the valley illuminated in its soft silver glow, the next obscured by the grey curtains in front of it. They both seemed asleep now. The knight, she noticed, had adjusted several times for the first hew hours, and his movement had tapered off about an hour ago. Sandor had laid still, like he always did, and if the increasing baritone of the pulls of his breathing were any indication, he was out. She stood as silently as she could, picking up her bedroll and bag, and grabbing her cloak as she walked past it. When she was just close enough to make out his face, she realized he wasn't asleep at all. He watched her as she put the mat down next to him, still an appropriate distance away for a lady, and settled down on it. He was quiet as she adjusted her skirts out, fluffed her bag to it would be a comfortable pillow, and pulled her cloak over her like a blanket.

“What do you think you're doing, little bird?” he whispered over to her, his eyes squinting at her in confusion.

“I would feel safer over here.”

He looked up to the sleeping knight against the tree, and then back at her. A nod was all the response she got, and in the nearness of her guardian, she was able to drift off quickly under the shifting moon.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

He'd hoped that if that night had been any indication, she would continue to sleep near him. But the next night, she was back across the fire from him. And the one after that, and the one following, until he chalked it up to just an anomaly. She'd been quite chatty with the stray the past few days, and he remembered with a rising petulance that she had far more in common with him than she did with himself. He was just a dog, after all, and he had nothing to attribute him to the North.

Morning brought with it a heavy mist and the prospect of new terrain. They were starting to get closer to the lake, and the plan had been to skirt as close to it as possible without going into any of the villages. Soon enough they would be out of the gently rolling hills of the southern riverlands and into the steep, rocky hills around the lake, heavily forested and almost unnavigable.

Sansa was over fussing with something behind a tree, the stray working at something on the fire, and Sandor was finishing up tying their bedrolls back onto Stranger. He heard them talking, their voices soft in the morning dew, and that same jealous stab poked at his belly again. That she was choosing to have hushed conversations with the pretty boy instead of the one who had _rescued_ her from that damned city. He turned around in time to see him hand her that pewter goblet she'd insisted on keeping, just in time to see her raise it to her lips.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Sandor had come out of _nowhere_ , it seemed, smacking the goblet out of her hands and sending it clattering off a tree trunk. His anger was immediately directed at Ser Edwyn, herding him away from Sansa and yelling at him all the way.

“I told you I would kill you if you hurt her,” he dagger was already out, the knight backing away from him with his hands up defensively.

“I swear, Clegane, I wasn't-”

“You'd think to _poison_ her?” her protector roared, sending previously-sleeping birds shooting into the sky from their nests.

“Clegane-” the knight made to pull his sword, but Sandor swatted his hand away with the flat of his blade.

“Sandor!” Sansa came running after the pair, desperately trying to get his attention. _He has no idea what was going on_. He paid her no attention, just kept herding the man away from his charge. “Sandor!” She tried again, pulling at the crook of his arm. He swung around to look at her, his eyes ablaze. “Sandor, he wasn't trying to poison me,” she soothed.

“No? Then what was it?” His dagger arm was still pointing back at the knight, his body twisted around so he could meet her eyes.

The pang in her abdomen reminded her, and how she wasn't about to tell _him._ “He was helping me boil some water.”

Sandor's eyes bore nothing but confusion, shifting wildly between her and what he could see out of his periphery and begging for more detail. Further explanation.

“I have- it's-” _Gods, how do I explain this?_ She looked down at the waistline of the pants that he hadn't even noticed she'd finished, at where the pain was coming from. _I can't very well tell_ him _I have my moonblood…_ It was one thing to tell the man that had a wife and daughters, it was another to tell this raging giant, the one who spent his time whoring and all together not paying attention to the woes of women. “He was helping me make tea,” she settled.

“Tea?” He asked, his eyes still disbelieving that 'the stray' wasn't trying to kill her.

“Yes, Sandor, tea.”

For the first time, the knight spoke up. “I remember your threats, Clegane. I would not hurt her. And besides your claims, I wouldn't hurt her for the simple fact that she is a Stark of Winterfell, and I my allegiance belonged to them long ago. I have no motive to hurt this girl.” Sandor turned around to glare at him. “Additionally, I will not have you questioning my every move. I see how you watch me. I am solely here to assure that the Lady gets to her brother safely. No more.” She could see Sandor's shoulders raising with his heavy breaths, the knight behind him standing his ground, and she turned to retrieve her goblet.

_Stupid boys._ They could sort it out themselves. The surges of pain in her belly required more attention than two testosterone-charged bulls trying to assert their dominance.

She'd already boiled another goblet's worth of water by the time they started to head back, carefully switching out heated rocks to warm the water in the metal cup. Sandor went wordlessly back to Stranger, surrounded by the little cloud of moodiness that perpetually followed him. She fished out the little packet of herbs from her bag, swirling around a few leaves of feverfew with her pinky. She watched the boys over the rim of her cup as they went about their tasks, Ser Edwyn helpfully trying to hand things to Sandor every once in a while and Sandor snatching them from him, mumbling something under his breath. _I believe that goes: 'thank you, Ser Edwyn. How kind of you to offer your help,'_ she corrected silently.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

When it was finally time to saddle up, Sandor resumed his usual position to lift her up onto the butt of his horse.

“Up you go, little bird.”

Ser Edwyn was already saddled, waiting expectantly for them a few yards away.

She hesitated and Sandor gave her a look of mild exasperation. “You didn't even notice I finished my sewing.”

“What?” His brows furrowed, the vexation on his face growing a little, clearly not understanding what any of this had to do with mounting a horse.

She moved one of her knees out, displaying her handiwork. “I can ride normally now. I don't have to sit side saddle.” She couldn't help her smile. Besides being proud of her accomplishment, there was a trace of something in his eyes that she couldn't quite name that sent little butterflies to her stomach. Which in turn only reminded her of the other things that were happening in that vicinity, and soon there was another surge of pain. She hid her wince under her ducked head as he lifted her up, and she was surprised when he positioned her up near the front of the saddle instead of behind like she had been. She'd expected she'd just maintain the same spot, but-

“You can probably ride in front now, then. It's a good thing, too. It's about to be rough terrain, and you're like to fall off if you don't have some support behind you,” he said as he swung up behind her, grabbing the reins when he settled in. It felt nice, almost nestled into him like that, and she felt him moving around, trying to figure out where to put his hands. He settled on resting them on his thighs, the reins draped over hers. She cast a quick glance at Ser Edwyn just to judge his reaction to her riding like a man, and he was looking at them disapprovingly. It gave her a little joy to have that freedom. To make someone uncomfortable without hardly doing anything. She felt her lips tug up into a little smile as she watched Ser Edwyn head into the trees surrounding their campsite, Stranger lurching forward to follow.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The terrain certainly was different than what they'd been going through: Sandor was right in that. And so was he right that she would need someone supporting her as they climbed up the rocky hillsides, through the changing trees with their moss hanging off of their branches in long feathers. She was glad that she had the cage of his legs to hold her in place, the stiff wall of his chest to lean against, and Stranger's bobbing neck in front of her to brace herself when they headed downhill.

She was appreciative that the horse was so well trained and Sandor such a good horseman, else the trek would have been much more uncomfortable. And she was surprised that he had kept his hands to himself, but there they stayed, resting on his thighs, the leather straps of the reins held loosely in those large paws.

They'd just summited a ridge, the view of many more to come and Ser Edwyn off in the distance, when he broke his early-morning silence.

“Tea, hmm?”

His voice was so much closer than it normally was, his breath stirring the loose hairs that had come undone from her braid.

“Tea,” she answered.

“What kind of tea?”

She didn't think the type of tea was any kind of consequential knowledge, but answered him anyway. “Feverfew.” _Like he would know what that was, anyway._

He was silent for a moment, contemplating. “Not feeling so great, eh?”

She narrowed her eyes at the trees in front of them, wondering what he was getting at. “No?”

“Moonblood?” he asked quietly.

She turned around to look at him, her cheeks flaming and brow creased. “How'd you know?”

“I was the queen's sworn shield, remember?”

_Oh, yes._ In fact, she did remember that, now that she thought of it. He'd spent a good portion of his years guarding that bitch. She covered her mouth at the thought, scolding herself for her unladylike internal language.

“You're not going to be sick again are you?”

“Oh, no. No. I'm fine, I just-” _Have cramps. Oh, gods. She wasn't going to explain that._

“There was this thing that seemed to help… do you mind if I...” He switched the reins in his left hand to his right in front of her, his left hand going to hover over her belly. “Do you mind if I...” She hadn't let go of his eyes since she'd turned to look at him before, and she nodded her approval. She could already feel the warmth of his hand before he pressed it to her, and when he did, she couldn't think of anything more soothing.

She leaned against him, his hand pressing on her belly and her head lolling back on his chest. It didn't even faze her that it was a terribly inappropriate position to find herself in, the comfort it afforded her was well worth the indecency.

And so they rode, the little bird huddled under the arms of her Hound, his thumb gently rubbing circles on her stomach, not a care that the stray kept shooting them angry glances.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Map!](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/fb/5a/7b/fb5a7be8184454e6b0ac5d7367faf74e.jpg)  
> [Lake inspiration](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/62/3c/a9/623ca91f5984667545bf580749bcf70f.jpg) In my head canon, this "gigantic inland lake with an island in the middle" is Flathead lake in Montana, because that's what I know. So the area around the Gods Eye is similar to the terrain of Flathead. I know that the riverlands are flat....  
> [Chapter inspiration](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/8f/0c/38/8f0c3803509beff875207adde29fe5b8.jpg)

Twenty-five days since they'd left King's Landing.

Twelve since they'd met _the stray_.

Two men, one lady, two horses.

Two hundred and sixty-seven times he'd called her _little bird_.

Five times since entering the shivering cold water of the lake that she wished he'd come down from his perch and join her.

As many that she'd scolded herself for thinking such things.

 

As cold as it was, the water was beautiful; crystal clear all the way down to her toes wiggling in the mud. It was a foreign feeling to her, but there something absolutely delightful in the way it squished. They'd made it down there early that morning, finally breaching the thickness of the forest and taking in the sight of the seemingly endless ocean that was the lake, the fog drifting off its surface in thick lazy spools illuminated by the rising sun. It had a calming effect after _days_ of stress over the difficult terrain; the sheer vastness of it, and the memory of a shred of her septa's teaching that it was domain of the First men. That the trees on the island in the middle bore the faces carved in them so long ago. She kept with her mother's gods, for sure, _ever the lady_ , but the old gods were the Northern gods, and she was her father's daughter, too. And he was of the North. _She_ was of the North, and soon she would be there again.

She ducked her head under the water, the iciness surrounding her, and if she opened her eyes just a little, she could see the life under the surface; stringy grasses swaying the slight current, schools of fish darting by in their morning pursuits of breakfast.

Edwyn was in pursuit of theirs. The men had come to an agreement: Sandor was an excellent swordsman, but a conversely terrible hunter, and while Edwyn could hold his own in a fight, he was a much better supplier of food than her guardian. So while the two still had an edgy mistrust of one another, it served to have Sandor watch over his little bird while the knight went off to hunt down dinner. Or, in this case, the deer he'd been tracking for the past few days for breakfast.

Sandor had found a boulder jutting out over the water, on one of the points forming the little cove she was swimming in, and had his back turned to her, eyes ever on alert to the sounds of the forest. She was surprised, too, that he hadn't turned around to feign checking on her when all he really wanted was a peek at her bathing form. But, he hadn't, and she couldn't decide if that disappointed her or not. She surfaced, pushing her wet hair out of her face and looked over to her protector. _Still perched on his rock,_ his eyes still trained in the trees.

“Almost done, little bird?” he called down to her, his head barely cocked over his shoulder.

_Two hundred sixty-eight_.

“Yes, nearly,” she answered, running the bar of tallow soap over her arms one more time. The suds swirled around her as she sloshed her way back to shore, intent on the blanket laid out on one of the granite rocks.

 

 

He knew that she thought he wasn't looking. If she'd known, she would have scolded him and hid behind a rock. At least, that's what he told himself whenever he'd sneak a glance over at her, the sharp edges of her too-thin shoulders softened in the early morning mist, the freckles that he imagined dotted the skin there all but erased at this distance. It was a pansy boys' notion to dream about seeing those speckles up close, but how he yearned for it. To feel for himself how soft her skin was. It was bad enough she'd let him hold her before, when she'd felt ill. He'd gotten used to lifting her with the safe barrier of her corset protecting her, but she'd scrapped that, apparently, after having to get help to take it off at the inn. Now the soft yield of her belly was his to comfort, the smooth curve of her waist his to grasp when he'd lift her on the horse. If only for a fleeting moment. Frankly, he was glad she was yards away in the water, more intent on rinsing away the road's dirt than paying him any attention. That way she wasn't aware what thoughts of her were doing to him, as his breeches grew increasingly tighter and he tried harder to think of anything _other_ than the creamy white porcelain of the little bird in the water.

He watched over her as she dried, his eyes purposefully avoiding studying how the blanket stuck to her breasts, how the cold air had her cheeks flushed that shade he'd grown to learn also meant she was embarrassed. She dressed quickly, something borne out of necessity rather than luxury, and scurried up the rocks to where he was.

Mercifully, the tension between his legs had been driven away with thoughts of fire, and by the time that she summited the point he was on, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“Shall we go see if Ser Edwyn has returned?” she asked cheerfully, her fingers expertly weaving her hair together as she looked innocently up at him, as if she hadn't just been running around in his mind naked.

“Aye,” was all he could muster, and so for wont of other words to carry on a conversation, he turned from her and lead them back to the camp.

She happily arranged herself in front of the fire, playing with the tail of her braid and warming up from the icy waters. “Do you think he'll be back soon?”

“I've no idea, bird. Best to make yourself comfortable, in the mean time.”

“Did you know that you only call me 'bird' when you want me to quit my chirping?”

“Can't say that I'd noticed,” he rasped, making his way over to Stranger to keep his mind off of the girl curled up by the fire.

“Well, you do.”

He grunted in reply, nudging Stranger's shoulder so he could inspect his shoes. He needed something to dull his thoughts of her, to echo out her delicate voice, and so he focused intently on the task at hand, dutifully scraping and brushing out the day's travels from Stranger's hooves.

 

                                                                                                                         


 

Sansa was nearly asleep when Edwyn made it back into camp, dragging behind him his unhappy looking chestnut and a plump deer draped over its back. She watched the men through half-shut eyes, curled in front of the fire, as they worked together to string the deer up, though she turned away then the daggers came out and they started to process it. Her stomach would likely always be too sensitive for that sort of thing.

She heard them talking, then the familiar heavy bootsteps as Sandor left the camp, presumably to go do what she'd just done and wash away the scent that had started to accumulate around him. Edwyn came over to check on her, putting some meat over the fire while he was at it.

He sat on a log near her, and just by virtue of recent memory, she knew how he was sitting; it was always the same, legs bent, elbows on his knees and hands falling in between them. “So how are you taking to your new guard dog, little wolf?” He asked, taking out his sword to sharpen it.

She pretended to be asleep for a moment, buying her time to decide between snapping at him for calling Sandor a dog, and just saving herself the effort and answering him. His whetstone scraped along the steel, the high-pitched whistle of it interrupting her thoughts.

“He's not new, and don't call him a dog,” she settled, turning over to face him.

“Apologies, but lady. How are you finding your guardian?”

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean.”

“How do you like him?”

“Just fine?” She wasn't sure that this man was getting at.

“He treats you well.” That wasn't a question, she knew. He'd watched them intently since they'd grouped up, and he knew the truth of that.

“Yes, he does.”

“And it seems he respects you.”

She sat up now, meeting his suspecting grey eyes. “What are you getting at, ser?”

“Well, once you meet up again with your brother, you might need a sworn shield.” He continued at his task, his attention returning to the steel in his hand. “Not that you would necessarily need it, once you're back in the safety of Winterfell, but he's a good swordsman-”

“The best in Westeros,” she reminded him. Only Beric Dondarrion stood above him, the last she was aware of, and for all anyone knew, he was dead. She winced at the thought that that was likely inadvertently her father's doing. He'd been the one to send him on a mission to the Riverlands; the one he hadn't returned from…

“Aye, it would seem. And a swordsman such as himself always has use. Not that it's any of my business, my lady, but you may wish to ask him to stay along once you've reached your brother.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know your brother. And I know that he places value in such men.”

She sensed there was something underlying what he was saying, though how to get him to say it was another matter entirely.

“Not so great to look at, though. You'd have to see that face everyday...”

“He's not so bad,” she said, laying back down and folding her arms across her belly. “Once you get used to him.”

“I'm not sure I could ever get used to that face.”

“Be kind, ser. A poison tongue never served anyone any good.”

“Apologies, my lady. What happened to the girl in Winterfell that always had her head in her songs?”

“That little girl grew up, ser.” She stared up at the pine needles quivering in the wind, the new sunlight just beginning to turn them into golden angles against their branches. “Life is not a song.”

“I'd wager you have the right of that, little wolf… I'll put in a good word for him to your brother if you so wish it.”

“It would be up to him, I'm afraid.”

“I think he wouldn't mind, between you and me.”

She pursed her lips to fight the smile that threatened to disturb her air of nonchalance, praying to the Maiden that he wouldn't see. “If you think so, ser.”

She settled back into her bedroll, turning over to stare at the flames licking at the circle of rocks around the camp fire, the slow, methodical scrape of stone and steel lulling her off into a late-morning slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it! I had a hard time writing his guy cause I know what I want to happen in later chapters, but not how to get there.... So, a bit of a filler/character development (?) in between. :) Sorry for the late update!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one to literally pass the time in the story. Next chapter, they'll be much further along. I was planning on getting really involved with being near the lake, but I don't think it would serve plot-wise. So expect a bit of a change in scenery next chapter! :) And hopefully a longer one.
> 
> This one, I imagined them being at the lake already for ~a week. So, with Edwyn for about 3 weeks, on the road for almost 5, if that matters to anyone but me. ;)

Early-morning sunlight pooled across the grey stone floor and fell on the hearth, behind which a roaring fire warmed the room. It was delightfully cozy, the first snowflakes of winter falling peacefully outside and the furs piled high on the wide featherbed in her room. A heavy arm fell over her, pulling her close into the spoon of his body, and she couldn't help feeling safe and warm and content. She tried to turn to look into the face of her assumed-lover, but she was paralyzed from doing so in her dream, helpless to change any of its course to her own will. And so she groaned and shifted around, the arm around her middle tightening its hold.

His breath ghosted over her hear as he whispered, his voice extraordinarily raspy in the morning haze, “Shh, little bird. Go back to sleep.”

 

 

Her eyes tracked them as they moved about in the quiet morning dew, saddling their horses and rolling up bedrolls, as if she hadn't just had a dream that she was sharing a bed- _perhaps more than a bed_ \- with Sandor Clegane. The Hound. One of, if not _the_ most feared swordsman in Westeros, a man incapable of being that… that… intimate… She sipped at the water in her pewter goblet, clutching onto it as if it was the most precious thing she owned, her eyes just barely over the rim as she watched them. Perhaps it would hide the blush that wouldn't leave her cheeks.

It had been a full sennight since they'd first stopped at the lake. Two, almost, since she'd first switched positions on Stranger; since she found herself necessarily pressed into that same spoon from her dream. And it was getting increasingly harder to ignore the throbbing in her… between her… _oh, don't think on such things!_ It was a curious thing: entirely unfamiliar, and no matter what she did, every time she found herself with her body leaning on his, the pommel of the saddle pressing- she shook her head, willing the thought not to take root. Besides, the constant ache from sitting on Stranger like a man would should have been enough to deter these… urges… that kept appearing.

The men had finished, Sandor turning to her expectantly and she tried to cool the burning of her cheeks and insatiable… curiosity… that had cropped up all of a sudden. He placed her gently at the front of the saddle and swung up a moment later, back to where he had been the day before, and the day before that. Everything was the same: the reins draped over her legs and ending in his hands behind her, her back straight and separated from the man behind her, but if she leaned back just a bit…

She sighed heavily; it was going to be a long day trying to drive those shameful thoughts from her head.

 

                                                                                           


 

Gods, he needed a good fuck.

It was one thing, before; before he foolishly decided that he would be her best bet at escape. Before he stole her away from her captors. Before she'd innocently stumbled to the forefront of his waking thoughts and woven herself into all of his lurid dreams. And gods damn it, then she'd gone and placed herself right up next to him, her little arse pressed as closely as she dared to his cock, her hips rolling as the horse carried them through the forest.

He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to keep up his resolve. They weren't too far away from a village. And though he'd sworn the gentle acceptance of her eyes mattered more than the purchased slide of a whore, the uncomfortable tightness in his balls begged to differ. There may not be a brothel in the next place he stopped, but maybe there'd be a whore just the same. Always some tramp willing to spread her legs for the right amount of coin if you looked hard enough.

She shifted in front of him as if she'd been reading his thoughts, her attentions diverted elsewhere to the scenery in front of them. Gods, she didn't even know what she was doing to him. Thankfully, that was solely between his hand and his imagination for the time being.

 

 

He was starting to resent the proximity this big man seemed to willingly accept from Sansa. And, for that matter, the amount she was willing to give. She was a _lady,_ for the gods' sake. She'd been raised better than that. If only her mother could see. Then she'd be reminded of how ladies were _supposed_ to act. Not wantonly throwing themselves around with men that didn't have the purest of intentions. Who weren't her betrothed. He may be honorable in his words, and so far in his actions, but how long would that last? How many more times would it take until riding up next to him, bathing- _bathing!_ \- near him put her in a situation where her honor was jeopardized?

He glared off into the distance, silently stewing over the situation, Stranger's hooves in rhythmic harmony with his own somewhere in the yards behind him.

The sooner she was with her brother and out of the constant companionship of that man, the better.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A location update: now quite close to the top of the lake. I'd guestimate ~2 weeks has passed since last chapter.

Sandor lay uncomfortably on his bedroll, by no fault of the mat's. It wasn't its responsibility that she was sitting atop him, her hips rolling like they did every day on the horse, up against his weakly-controlled cock. If she kept at it, he had half a mind to pin her up against a tree and fuck the shit out of her, but she neither deserved that, nor did he think he could actually go through with it. And so the beauty in his mind moved herself over him, her teats bouncing with every thrust and a look of passive acceptance across her delicate features. He raised his knee, his thigh effectively hiding the persistent stiffness in his breeches lest anyone turn over in the night and see.

Gods, he had to stop this. He was just torturing himself. _Nothing_ would ever come of it, and it was just ruining his ability to stroll into a whorehouse and find his easy release. She was a lady, _a_ _fucking_ _princess_ , he reminded himself, with the reality that her brother was King in the North. And the fucking Maiden herself, as far as he was concerned. Being spoiled by some ugly dog was never going to be her fate.

He rolled over, resenting the hold she seemed to unknowingly have over him. The village it would be. They were maybe a day out. He could hold off til then. Find a whore, professional or otherwise, and put an end to this misery. Get her out of his head. It was probably just because it'd been so long since he'd last fucked. Gods, it was like back in his youth again. He just… needed to go find a whore. And quickly.

Sansa sighed in her sleep across the burned-out fire from him, shifting around until she was facing him, her features relaxed and beautiful as always in the dim moonlight. The cloak she was using as a blanket was still thin enough to be able to drape over her nicely, the flare of her hip plainly obvious against the contrast of the trees behind her.

_Buggering hells,_ he grumbled under his breath, standing up silently from his bedroll to go take care of the problem. Surely, it would be over with swiftly and then he could get back to sleep.

 

                                                                                   


 

He leaned against the tree, relishing in the rapidly fleeting relief he'd found, and kicking pine needles over the evidence. He was quite a ways from camp, the little bird and Edwyn thankfully still asleep; at least when he'd left. And so he picked his way in the moonlight back through the leaf litter, over the granite boulders strewn about.

_Was that there last time?_ He halted his progress, stooping to inspect the disturbed ground crossing his path. He couldn't remember; in his hushed haste to leave, he'd been more concerned with the amount of sound he was making and less about what he'd been stepping over. But there, plain as day, were fresh tracks. _Couldn't have been ours._ They'd taken a different route in and no one had been down there all day. He was instantly alert, his already-adjusted eyes scanning through the trees and instinctively reaching for his sword. But as he made it up to the hill they'd camped on, there was nothing else amiss. For good measure, he circled the camp a few times, just to make sure. Nothing. Maybe they weren't as fresh as he thought.

But he knew better. For half his life, he'd been trained in pursuit, in warfare, in tracking. He knew better. There were soldiers through here recently.

And so his begrudgingly-gained relaxation was wasted as he leaned up against the rough bark of a tree above camp, silently keeping watch over the little bird and the stray sleeping peacefully, none the wiser to the potential danger of the woods. He'd be damned if he let something happen to them in the night.

 

 

Sandor had been particularly on edge all day, untalkative even more than usual. He was alert and primed, and it worried her. Edwyn had talked with him that morning, seemingly in agreement of whatever it was two men talk about. Sandor had sent him off into the woods to look at something, and when he came back, he had seemed concerned, too.

She wished they would just tell her what was going on, but it appeared to be the general consensus that she wasn't to be bothered with the development. And so she put on her recently-forgotten air of indifference, reverting back to the chirpy little bird from Kings Landing, for lack of any other role to play.

“So when we get into the village, are you going to go get a shave?” she asked, twisting herself around to evaluate the steadily-growing layer of stubble on his chin. He finally met her eyes, after essentially ignoring her all morning, studying her face.

“Why?”

“I don't know, it makes you-”

“Look softer, somehow?” He finished her sentence, watching as her eyes clouded over, her recognition of the things she'd said when she thought he'd been asleep.

“How did you...” she quietly began, her voice trailing off as her eyes went back to the road. He watched her back stiffen, her hands placed as close to what would be her lap if she wasn't sitting so, no longer fiddling with Stranger's mane. “Did you hear _everything_?” Her voice was almost imperceptible now, her head turned in the position to track Ser Edwyn's horse up ahead of them.

“As much as you were willing to tell me.”

“You were _asleep_ ,” she whispered.

“You shouldn't assume things, girl.” His voice came out harsher than usual, and she stiffened under his words, her feathers blown asunder.

“You shouldn't eavesdrop.”

This was getting nowhere. She shouldn't have even said anything.

“Sansa, it's not like I could have told you I could hear you.”

“But you could have said something before now.”

“To what purpose? Would it have mattered?”

She was quiet for a while, letting him stew over her restriction of her answer. Just the steady clomp of Stranger's hooves punctuated the silence between them, dragging the minutes on.

“I suppose not,” she settled. Just how much _had_ he heard? The part about how she thought it was so sad he never knew nice things? How it _broke her heart_? Gods, what had she gotten herself into? Running off with this man, whom she barely knew, who she had just found out knew pretty much all of her secrets. _Gods, all this time, and he never said anything!_ She could feel her anger at him rising, but whether it was founded or not, she was still unsure. “What do you remember me saying to you?”

“Not much,” he answered simply, unhelpfully.

She turned around to glare at him. “Tell me, Sandor. You remember. You always remember _everything_. Surely, you can tell me what I said to you.” He narrowed his eyes at her, though only briefly, as he decided whether to keep that wall up or not.

 

 

The little bird had found her talons, and she was sinking them into his worthless hide. Why he even said anything was something he still couldn't figure out. Why he had teased her was another. But at this moment, it would be wrong to not tell her. It would be a lie, and he hated liars. One of omission, surely, but a lie nonetheless.

“I remember you saying that you wished you could do more.” That was one of the first things that he could recall. Her hair gently brushing his arm as she leaned over him, gently dabbing at his forehead and chirping her kind words. Perhaps the kindest thing anyone had actually ever done for him. He doubted he would ever tell her that. She didn't need the details. She just asked what he could remember. “You did enough.” That was the understatement of his life.

She was quiet again, looking anywhere but at him.

“I remember you coming in after Meryn had gotten to you.”

“So you knew about that.”

“Aye.”

She turned around then, her eyes rimmed with unshed tears. “Sandor.” _Gods,_ her lips were the sweetest thing there was. Especially when they said his name. “Is it wrong that I'm glad he's dead?”

He'd never really thought about it. He was never particularly inclined to care anything at all about the dead. What's dead was dead. It wasn't wrong to be glad it was them and not you, but other than that, he realized, he had never really cared. “I don't think so, little bird.” One fat tear slid down her cheek, the track soon filled with more. “Better him than you. He probably would have killed you eventually.”

She nodded, but the tears didn't stop. Something in him itched to comfort her; an urge he wasn't exactly used to, borne out of watching how this fragile creature interacted with everyone else. It was curious thing, to want to fix the broken pieces instead of being the one to create them. Before he knew it, his hands had slid around in front of her to wrap Stranger's reins around the pommel of the saddle. She only stiffened under his arms for a moment before she melted into his embrace, perfectly nesting into him, her soft face pressed into cold mail covering his bicep. Gods, it the most unnatural thing to him, but somehow it just felt… right… her seeking comfort in his arms like that. He could feel her quivering under him, not quite sobbing, but not quite steady either. “Shh, little bird. You're okay.” The words felt strange on his tongue. Like he knew how they sounded when other people said them, knew what they meant, but somehow he was pronouncing them wrong. Like she would know he was a fraud and didn't actually know how to speak her language.

She nodded into his arm, her tears soaking into the leather under his mail. He didn't really know what to do after, how to break away. And so he stayed like that, holding her in his arms and adjusting the reins every once in a while, plodding along through the serenity of the forest. Silently praying to gods he didn't believe in that the stray wouldn't turn around and ruin it.

 

 

The village they stumbled into shouldn't have even been on the map, it was so tiny. There were only a few thatched roofs along the shore of the cove they nestled into, the long scraggly pine branches stretching far over them on the hill above their meager valley. The inhabitants matched those limbs; thin and unkempt, clearly in dire need of this fucking war to stop. Only by the grace of Ser stray and the little bird were they able to find someone willing enough to take them in for the night, provide them with a meal and a place to tie up the horses.

After coughing up a few copper stars- _probably useless to these people anyway-_ their hosts presented them with an assortment of rye bread and half-molded cheese, followed by the scantily afforded perch they'd mustered up. Sansa and the stray sat lounging by the fire with their hosts, having a pleasant enough time chatting amongst themselves about a topic he wasn't particularly interested in. Sandor chose to stay by the small wooden door of the hut, the one he'd had to significantly duck through to get inside.

She still hadn't said much of anything to him, finding an excuse a few hours later to finally straighten herself back out on the horse as if nothing had happened. But even a second holding her like that was more than he ever thought he would get. So he sat watching them, diligently sharpening his sword as he did every night; watching as she smiled demurely, the raising of her cheeks not really reaching her eyes, but being polite nonetheless. What he wouldn't give to see a real smile from her. Like the one she'd flashed at Edwyn when he'd complimented her stitching. He made a mental note as he ran the whetstone over the steel that perhaps that was how he could earn it; with pretty words to match her pretty face. _Buggering hells._

 

 

She wasn't sure what to make of the events of that day: the sudden acknowledgment that she'd been using him as a human diary. Her guilt about Meryn being killed being made public knowledge. And then his all too surprising reaction. He'd been _kind_. Something she didn't even think he had in him. But when he'd wrapped his arms around her, it felt… right… Like in her dream. And she didn't want it to end just yet, so she'd let him keep her there in the cage of his arms for longer than she should have, her face nuzzled up against him.

Finally, Edwyn had turned around to check on why they'd been so quiet, and she caught his glare as he took in how they were positioned. She almost wished she hadn't felt so guilty for being caught, thoroughly wished that she'd just stayed where she was and glared back. The opportunity to have that man wrapped around her, like his cloak had been so many times, would surely never present itself again. She _should_ have just glared back at him and continued what they were doing. But the ice in his eyes implored her to straighten her posture, disentangle herself from his arms, and set her eyes back on the road. Wipe away the salt from her tears.

And now the fire was dying, their hosts retiring to their bed in the corner of the one-room hut. She and the boys were still to sleep on the floor, as there was nowhere else for them in the tiny house. But at least it was out of the elements and off of the cold ground. The stones mixed in with the pine needles sucked away most of the heat she'd hoped to keep to herself out in the forest.

The pile of embers let out the last of their light, and she lay in the dark, between her two protectors, their breaths quickly deepening with slumber. She found herself thinking back on all of the events of the past year. How shortly after her eighteenth nameday, the water outside the very city she'd thought was so fortified had burned. How the man she thought remarkably like those impenetrable stone walls had fallen at her door. And she drifted off into a fitful sleep thinking about that man she was glad was dead, his sneering master, and the hell they'd put her through.

 

 

It was well into the night when he heard her stirring, her quiet rousing followed by her soft iterations of the houses that he'd learned meant she'd had a nightmare. Her movements interrupted one of his, actually. A fact that he wasn't entirely upset about. The reenacted memory of his face burning would thankfully wait for another night.

He listened to her for a time; there wasn't really a point to calm her down, as she was doing that herself. “...Chester, Chyttering, Cleg-”

“That's enough for now, little bird,” he whispered, not wanting to wake anyone else.

She turned to him, her voice much closer in the small room than it normally was. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”

He measured his response, “It's okay.” Normally, he would tell her to stop chirping so he could get some sleep. And the words were truly on his tongue. But if that afternoon had been any indication, perhaps a different approach would work better. And he _was_ a quick learner, after all. Though it would take quite a bit more schooling to train himself to bite back the vitriol that normally spewed from his mouth. “Go back to sleep little bird.”

“Sandor?”

“Yes?”

“I-” she started. “Nevermind.”

He squinted at her pointlessly in the pitch black, trying to work out what she wasn't saying.

“Aye. Get some sleep, bird,” he used her notation from the other day to sidestep directly telling her to quit her chirping.

 

 

He was overwhelmingly aware when she scooted closer to him, pulling her makeshift pillow along with her. The diffused light of dawn had just started lightening the single dusty window in the small hut, and though he couldn't see her through his shut eyes, he imagined her face in that weak morning light. The way she hesitated exposed that she thought he was asleep. But the reality of it was that he'd just been willing himself to get some rest, his eyes closed and mind wandering to the previous afternoon. Almost as if she'd known his musings, he felt her warm body press up against his arm, her hand snake between it and his body, barely rattling the mail as she moved. He was paralyzed, the fear of startling her and the desire for her to be this close again keeping him absolutely from moving. She nuzzled wordlessly into her pillow, now propped up against the mail on his bicep, and soon he could hear her breaths even out, could feel for the first time the steady movement of her chest as she drifted off to sleep. He lay unmoving as the light brightened the room, lazily sliding across the floor and illuminating the halo of copper hair around her. How the fuck he ever got so lucky to fall into this situation, he might never work out.

He must have drifted back asleep, though it seemed unreasonable that such a feat were even possible in his present position. The cold tip of steel pressing into his throat was what woke him up the second time, not the stirrings around him as their hosts made their morning meal, not the little bird gently cooing next to him. His hard grey eyes were met with their twins as he looked up to the man crouching above him, the ser's blade pressed to his neck and a curious look on his face. _Fucking stray_. Something akin to the simmering brew of emotions floating around his stomach passed across Edwyn's eyes as well, his blade unmoving as he glared down at Sandor. The little bird adjusted herself, completely oblivious to anything going on as she dreamed.

“Get your hands off of her,” the stray commanded, his voice stern and sure even in the early morning hours.

Years of practice had warranted his movements stealthy and efficient, though his size was easily mistaken for sluggishness. “Move your knife.”

“Get your hands off of her.”

Sandor's eyes flitted to the dagger currently positioned at the other man's ribs, calling attention to the mutual threat. “Move your knife or you'll get a knife to the lungs. Wouldn't do her much good to slit my throat if you're going to bleed out, too.”

The knight narrowed his eyes at him again, but begrudgingly sheathed his knife. “Get your hands off of her.”

By then, Sansa had roused, blinking at them confusedly through sleep-heavy lids. “As you can see, _my_ hands aren't _on_ _her_.” Edwyn looked down to survey; indeed, Sandor lay with his hands at his sides, not making any effort to mimick the girl wrapped around his arm.

The knight diverted his attentions to the girl, scowling over at her. “You're a lady, act like one.”

Sandor watched her drowsy expression change from curiosity to resentment to quiet acceptance as she peeled herself away, retracting herself to the spot she'd been in at the beginning of the night. “I don't need you scolding me, _Edwyn_.” She glared over at him, clearly still a little miffed that this stranger seemed to take such interest in who she considered a pillow.

Sandor and Edwyn snapped up at the sound of the horses roaring outside, drawing their swords in the same movement as heading for the door.

It was a small hut, the space inside even more so, but as flames suddenly made their way through one of the corners of the roof, the little bit of room exponentially decreased. Sandor instinctively reached for Sansa, grabbing her around her middle and pulling her through the tiny door. He turned back around just in time to see Ser Edwyn run out, the burning thatch of the roof collapsing in on their hosts. What little buildings had existed in the tiny cove were quickly being razed, thick charcoal smoke filling the hollow of the valley. He spun around, trying to get a visual on how the fuck this happened, when he saw Edwyn's chestnut, his tether obviously cut, running toward them in just the right trajectory to pass by a frantic Stranger. The destrier desperately tried to pull his halter free, lashing his head against the force of the rope holding him to the rail he was tied on. The chestnut passed behind him just as Stranger kicked, and Sandor heard her little gasp of horror as the chestnut went down. It took all of his will to run back toward the flaming hut, but his only true friend would surely suffer the same fate as their hosts if he left him. The wild red eyes of his beast met the terror he was sure was in his as he pulled at the rope, setting the horse loose to escape. Hopefully, he wouldn't run off too far, and with any luck- although it looked like they were in short supply of that- he would be able to find him after they figured out what was going on.

He whirled around, his focus back to the little bird and the stray, thick ropes of smoke between him and them. Thankfully, the other man had gotten her away from the building, both of them standing near the treeline and watching as the village burned. Only a few yards remained to close the distance between them when he saw movement in the trees. _Fucking soldiers._ He knew he'd been right about those tracks. But these were a ballsy bunch to attach a village. That or there was a horde of them.

The movement only increased the closer he got, his legs seemingly unable to propel him as fast as he needed to go to reach his bird.

And there, emerging through the smoke and trees, directly in his path and cutting off his attempt at reaching her, stood the only man he physically had to look up to.

His voice cut easily through the crackling of the fires behind them, a maniacal smile spreading across his evil features. “Hello brother.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did everybody bring their popcorn?
> 
> Second thought, maybe you don't want to eat....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by Hubs. He helped me work through my meltdown of "oh shit, what have I done? I didn't look up Gregor in the ASOIAF wiki until after I posted."
> 
> And Mastodon. And Killswitch Engage.

* * *

 

_Godsfuckingdammitsonofawhore_ . He didn't have much time. Ser Edwyn and the little bird were hidden behind the wall of his brother, his cronies circling around them like a pack of snarling hungry dogs. _Rat cunts_.

“ _RUN!”_ he bellowed, hoping again that those gods were listening and the little bird could fly away. A quick assessment decided that the stray would have to take the others. At least he could buy them some time to escape if he distracted Gregor.

There was nothing he had to say to his brother; his sword would say enough. Sandor lunged at him, gauging his movements as he reacted to the swing. He easily deflected it, the knight's greatsword sending the smaller Clegane reeling back. Gregor flipped the flaps of his helmet closed. “I thought you fought better than that, brother,” he laughed. _Buggering cunt-_ He swung at him again, this time knowing how he would move. He may be a behemoth, but he was heavy, and he had a few years on Sandor. If he could draw him away from the others, they might stand a chance.

So he lured Gregor back into the treeline, the knight greedily following, swinging at Sandor as he ducked to miss the edges of the sword. He was likely to tire him out if he kept at it, the larger knight pursuing him through the trees and Sandor parrying his blows when he'd strike. He wished he could see the others: make sure they were safe. But the best thing he could do for them would be to keep Gregor away.

“FIGHT!” Gregor yelled at his brother, frustrated that the non-knight kept deflecting. He swung at Sandor again, his greatsword nigh inches from the scarred side of his face as he blocked it. It took almost all of his strength to push his sword back, but Gregor took a second to move into another position; enough time for his brother to run around to the back of him. Sandor swung as his ribs, the force of his blow momentarily winding the knight. Surely, he wouldn't be able to pierce his armor, _but buy them time_ , he reminded himself. Gregor recovered, swinging in an arc around him, Sandor ducking under the sword once again. He swung back, his arm extended and putting all the force and inertia from the weight of the sword as it crashed against the knight's chest.

He could faintly hear the steel clashing off in the distance, Ser Edwyn clearly still in the fight. _Good. Save her._ But he was within the reach of his brother's arms, and Gregor pushed him back, sending the non-knight to the ground. Sandor raised his sword in time to block the thrust at his face, the knight leaning into his weapon to pin his brother down. He struggled under the weight of it, looking into his frenzied eyes through the slits of his helmet. _His helmet_ . He looked around for something heavier than his sword- _a rock, anything_. There was a nice sturdy one mercifully within his reach, if he could just get it. His sword dug into the soft loam and layer of pine needles. If he could just brace against Gregor with one hand… It was significantly harder to keep Gregor's blade away from his throat with less support, but he could reach the rock with his left hand. His fingers searched through the needles, seeking the cold granite. Gregor glared through his helmet, his eyes furious and rabid. He didn't have the foresight to think what his brother was doing underneath him, nor the peripheral vision to see that far; but surely the smaller Clegane wouldn't be able to hold out forever. And so he didn't see the rock hurtling toward the steel encasing his head, as Sandor's blow connected with the area above his temple.

The distraction was enough to confuse the knight, allowing Sandor to push him off of him. The knight reeled back, his helmet dented and setting the slit for his eyes askew. Gregor yelled indistinguishably from under the steel as Sandor regained his footing, judging his next move. The helmet was ruined; he'd have to take it off to see. An opportunity to strike. Sandor reached for the dagger at his belt, preparing to lunge.

The helmet clattered on the stones in the ground, and Sandor took the opening; running at his brother, jumping up to set the strike- but the tree trunk of Gregor's arm connected with his chest, sending him flying into the hard furrows of the pine behind him. He couldn't breathe, gasping for air as he saw his brother laughing at his crumpled form. The knight wrote him off, turning to head back down the hill to the smoldering remains of the village. Sandor tried to move, but the air wouldn't come, and the corners of his vision were blurring. _Calm down. Calm down. You can't breathe if you're panicked._ The pain from the blow didn't help either. He willed his desperate gulps for air to slow, watching as his brother disappeared below the horizon of the hill.

He couldn't hear anything but the crackling of what was left of the buildings and the wind through the trees above him. No more steel song. No more shouting. Then the high-pitched wail of a woman. _Sansa_ . _No. Sansa!_ He struggled to roll to his knees, crawling over the sharp pine needles, the uneven stones in the loam until he could see the valley again.

Gregor's men lay strewn across the shore, their blood slowly being lapped away by the lake. He searched for Sansa, for the stray. He saw Edwyn first; struggling to free himself from under one of the bigger cunts, pushing the dead body off of him, wrestling his sword from the ribs it was sticking out of. _Where the fuck is Sansa?_ And then he saw: Gregor pulling something from under an overturned fishing skiff. A flash of copper, a flurry of sapphire blue as she kicked and sent her dress flapping. He flopped her over his shoulder like she was nothing, undeterred by the amount she was struggling.

_No!_

But he still couldn't stand. He didn't have enough air for it, his broken ribs making it nigh impossible to move. For the second time in his gods forsaken life, he was paralyzed; watching as his brother carried her off, screaming into the forest. But his lungs wouldn't fill with the air to call back to her.

Movement from the shore caught his eye: Ser Edwyn charging with escalating speed toward the Mountain and his captive. And then he was lunging at his back, the impact shaking Sansa loose and sending Gregor stumbling and confused. Edwyn raised his arm- a glint of something in the pale morning sunlight- a spurt of deep crimson blood as it disappeared into Gregor's neck. He spun around, clasping angrily at his neck as the smaller knight scrambled away, running to retrieve Sansa. Sandor watched from the hillside, sucking in what air he could, trying frantically to move toward them. All thoughts of revenge against his brother had long been discarded: he just wanted her safe. And Edwyn. They stood a chance. They just needed to get away. Let Gregor fall and bleed out.

Gregor was turning paler as the blood escaped from his body, but he stumbled toward Edwyn and Sansa, falling as he caught up to them and taking Edwyn with him. Sansa screamed, but thankfully ran away from her would-surely-be rapist. Gregor dragged the knight under him in the gravel, making to lift his hands to strangle Edwyn. Sandor forced his feet to move, hanging on to the trees as he lurched to the shore, his hatred for that bastard propelling him forward. But he wasn't quick enough: he saw Edwyn draw the small blade at his side again, Gregor too focused in his state to notice. And then he could see the point of it sticking out through the crown of his skull, Edwyn shielding his eyes from the blood dripping onto his face. He struggled out from underneath the Mountain, pushing heaps of gravel around as his arms worked to pull him out.

Sansa ran from the treeline across from him, looping her arms under the knight's and helping to pull him free from the Gregor's weight.

Edwyn rose to his feet, brushing off the gravel and dropping his dagger unceremoniously on the ground, wrapping his arms around Sansa and squeezing her like his life depended on it.

Sandor watched them, taking in the reality that his tormentor was finally dead, and let out a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding his entire life.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we all agree to give Ser Stray a break now?


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Sooo.... seems like you guys are unhappy with the outcome of last chapter....

  

* * *

 

The immediate danger gone, Sansa felt her nerves calming, her skin no longer alight with the terror of the situation. But then her present situation sunk in: the man who had taken it upon himself to act so familiar to her suddenly wrapping himself around her, her arms at her sides and the vice of his grip entirely inappropriate and _not_ mutual. Quite unlike the one she'd received from Sandor the day before. She scanned the area around them, unable to twist around properly because of her confinement. Reaching up between them to wipe the smear of blood off her face, she used her other arm to wiggle some room in between them and push him away.

“Excuse me, _ser_ ,” she dismissed him, a little more harshly than she probably should have. But he was _not_ the man that she cared about right in that particular moment in time.

Her eyes frantically sought the space where he should be. _Where's Sandor?_ The sinking pit in her stomach begged her to believe the worst, but she refused. _No, not now. He wouldn't leave me now. Not alone with the stray._ She spun around in the gravel, her eyes trained on the downed men around her, surveying their ripped bodies, then moving to the outskirts of the village and up to the treeline- _There_. He had just cleared the trees, his boots crunching through the coarse rocks, eyes raging and intent on Edwyn as he approached them, his sword poised to swing.

“ _You fucking cunt!_ ” he yelled as he stormed across the shore, wheezing a little in the space between his steps. Sansa backed out of his path. She knew why he was angry: Edwyn had taken away his kill. Something the knight was now going to be painfully aware of. Sandor flicked her a quick glance, an assessment of her well being made in the two seconds it took from his diverted attention. _I'm okay_.

He raised his sword to Edwyn's chest, backing him up toward the trees behind them. “How _dare_ you?” he rasped. _What's wrong with him_? _Is he injured?_ She noted the difficulty he seemed to be having, the wince that was barely perceptible, but the one she'd been trained to notice during her time staring at him in the great hall as she was beaten. She couldn't see anything outright on him; no deep lacerations, no bloody nose; nothing. And that made her worry more.

“I've no wish to fight you, Clegane,” the knight backed away from him, one hand up defensively but the other on the hilt of his sword. “Please, put your sword down.”

“You killed my brother.” Sandor's eyes were the darkest she'd ever seen them, the light foggy silver she'd seen the day before now replaced with the deep slate of heavily-laden rainclouds.

“Was that a problem? Surely the world is better off with-”

“ _He was mine,_ ” Sandor nudged the point of his sword at the plate sewn into the knight's leather armor. “And you took him from me. I should kill _you_ for it.”

“What are you on about? You didn't want me to kill him? I'm sorry, I-”

“You had _no right_.”

“Is this some kind of revenge thing?” He raised his defensive hand to point at Sandor's scar. “For that?”

Sandor glowered back at him, pressing the sword a bit more into the leather.

“Would you rather have me wait for you, and let your brother get away with the Lady here?” He motioned to Sansa, and she glared back at him. _Don't bring me into this_. “Because surely, you would agree that our Lady's safety is paramount. Put in that same position, I still wouldn't wait for you to kill him.”

His eyes were wild, throwing daggers at the man while he worked out his response. “I guess you're right,” Sandor lowered his sword, and Edwyn visibly relaxed under the lessened threat. “She's more important.”

“See, there you-” Sandor's fist connected solidly with the square line of the knight's jaw, sending a spray of blood out of his mouth as his head twisted to the side.

“So stay the _fuck_ away from her.”

The stray wiped at his lip, trying to tidy up the menage of blood now on his face: the men he'd killed, Gregor's, his. “You can be a real bastard sometimes, you know,” he called to Sandor's back as he stalked away.

He passed by Sansa on his way to Gregor, and she reached out to touch his arm. “Are you alright?” she asked hesitantly, gauging if his anger would be directed at her, too.

He yanked his arm away, looking straight ahead and not meeting her eyes. “I don't need your courtesies, bird.”

She shrunk away, now not knowing what to do. She wanted to comfort the man who wouldn't accept it, and wanted nothing to do with the one who would probably welcome it with open arms. In fact, he already had. She watched him for a moment, trying to decide her next actions. When he reached the body of his brother, there was no mourning, no sadness as one would expect from a normal man. He reached out a foot to roll the big man over, inspecting the blade through his skull, making sure he was dead.

Edwyn crunched his way over to her, standing, thankfully, an appropriate distance from her this time. _He better have gotten the hint_. “What's his problem?” he asked of her, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as Sandor inspected the body of the Mountain.

“You took his kill. Surely you know.” She looked across her shoulder at him, half her attention still on Sandor a few yards away. “I mean, surely you know how terrible Gregor was. How his family died under mysterious circumstances. How his first wives died out of the blue?”

“Everyone knows that. There's no denying he was an awful man.”

“Well, Sandor lived to kill him. And you took his kill. So now what does he have?” She narrowed his eyes at him, angry on Sandor's behalf. She wasn't about to go telling this interloper his whole background; his confidences meant more to her than settling this knight's nerves.

“What's done is done.” He lifted a palm to his jaw, massaging his quickly swelling cheek.

“You're lucky he didn't kill you.”

“He broke my jaw,” he grimaced, gently prodding at the tender flesh.

 _This man must not understand the gravity of this. Sandor could have easily killed him._ She nodded at him, affirming her earlier statement. “Lucky. And I would suggest leaving him alone if you don't want anything worse than that.” The village was merely piles of smoldering rubble now, and she tipped her head over to the wreckage. “Why don't you go look for survivors. Food… something. If I were you, I would make yourself scarce.”

The knight tried to clench his jaw, his frustration evident, but his newly-acquired injury prevented it. He settled on pursing his lips and giving her a curt nod before spinning on his heel and heading toward the blackened debris.

Her attention freed, she studied Sandor as he set about his task, whatever that might happen to be. As she watched him, it became evident during his frequent trips into the forest that he planned on building some sort of pyre.

“Do you need help?” She felt awkward in between the two men, both of whom were now busy working, while she stood there doing nothing.

He didn't reply, and it didn't seem advisable to keep pestering him, so she silently joined in the hunt for tinder, inwardly laughing at the fact that she was purposefully searching for the ugliest branches. _Served him right for what he did._ It was odd, the fact that the brother who seemed untouched outwardly from the unfairness of life was actually the most vile. How the one who'd gotten the worst of it was kind and gentle. _Well, at least to me._ Though she was sure he'd never admit it.

He still didn't acknowledge her slowly accumulating pile of twisted, pitchy sticks, but she continued collecting them. He didn't need to talk, and she didn't need to chirp her courtesies, and if he didn't appreciate it, then that might just be alright, too. There was something she understood about his predicament, his frustration and anger that he couldn't exact revenge on the only one he truly cared about getting it from. She'd never be able to get Joffrey back for his months of torture, she'd never be able to spit the same sickly-sweet, thinly-veiled venom at Cersei as the queen had to her. Though she did relish just a little in the fact that Ser Meryn had gotten what he deserved. No matter the guilt that rested in her heart because of it. She ignored that.

She watched him in between her collecting, through the trees of the forest or secretly through the curtain of her hair as he arranged the sticks he'd accumulated around his brother. Then the ones she'd gathered. He turned one over in his hand, the slightest hint of a smirk as he inspected the ugliness of it, and she felt a little better that she'd gotten that sort of a reaction from him. That maybe there wasn't _entirely_ rage inside him at the moment. Maybe once he settled down, he'd talk to her.

He moved laboriously when he thought she wasn't looking, now that the knight was off on the other side of the valley. Something was wrong with him, she just didn't know what.

It took a while to get the pyre started, quite unlike the elaborate ones she'd seen in the past; not much more than a pile of sticks over a body. The bubbles of resin popped as the fire touched them, the air quickly clouded with the stench of burning flesh. She'd been hanging back in the trees, silently watching him as he set it, but after it was going, he retreated away from the fire to plop down in the gravel. There was a schism in her mind, that of whether to stay where she was, her feet rooted to give him some space, or to join him. The latter won out as she watched him stare into the flames, his face expressionless despite watching his brother burn, despite his hatred of fire.

She picked her way back over to him from the trees, the gravel shifting unhelpfully under her, until she found a spot near him that wasn't covered in the death on the shore. It took all of her restraint not to lose the meager breakfast she'd had when she stole a glance over to the pyre; the skin beginning to bubble and char, the wind mercifully blowing the stench downwind. So she arranged her skirts around her and placed her clasped hands in her lap, because that was what proper ladies did, and if she were to cling to anything in these moments of displeasure, it would be her identity. _A lady would inquire about the state of her protector, to make sure he's alright_ , she reminded herself.

He was next to her physically, yes, but his eyes were vacant and his mind a million leagues away. There was no point trying to talk to him. He wouldn't answer. So she studied him to keep her eyes off of the fire, trying to see where he was injured without having to ask. His arms seemed fine; looped over the tops of his knees bent in front of him. His face, aside from the scar, seemed fine. _Well, normal, at least_. Legs, the same. He held his back oddly, as if tender. Perhaps that was it. She made a mental note to study him further once he moved. She wasn't a doctor, for sure. But she'd been around her rowdy brothers growing up, and listened to her septa enough that she felt confident that she could at least help a minor ailment. Hopefully that was all it was.

And so they sat in silence, Sandor's eyes trained on the fire and Sansa's on Sandor, and Edwyn, thankfully, nowhere near.

 

* * *

 

Only a pile of ash, a puddle of melted steel, and his bones remained, the fire long since died out. She'd been sitting next to him the whole time. Sometimes intently, others laying back in the gravel with her arm over her nose when the wind would shift. But she wasn't going to leave him. Not now. Not while he was sorting through whatever this ritual meant to him. And that was well beyond her reasoning. She would have expected him to fly off in a rage. Hells, at this stage in her life, she half expected she'd do the same if put in the same circumstance.

“You didn't have to stay.” He rasped, finally breaking their hours of silence.

She sat up from her rocky bed, rubbing her eyes to adjust to the twilight. “I know.”

“Why did you?”

“I didn't want you to be alone.”

He slid his eyes over to her, his chin tucked into his shoulder as he looked back to where she was sitting. _Gods, that look_. His world was in his eyes; the years of torment, ridicule, sadness, rage. A churning mix of emotion pinned on a single word: alone. _I didn't want you to be alone._

He nodded into his shoulder, the only form of a response she would get.

She wasn't sure if it was the right course of action, if that's what he would want, but inexplicably she found herself sidling over to him through the rocks until her side was leaning up against his. Her hand traced along his arm of its own accord, prying its way under the clasp of his where it was gripping his knee, lacing her long fingers in with his. She leaned her head against the top of his arm; still not tall enough to reach the ball of his shoulder.

“I won't leave you alone, Sandor.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I doubt anybody cares, but as I have a background in dendrology, I wanted to note: being that I wanted this lake to be similar to Flathead, and Montana/the western states have a lot of ponderosa pine, I imagine that's the wood they're using. It burns hot & quick, and would (maybe?) be an effective means of body disposal. Also, whoever watches my browser history is going to be raising some eyebrows at my searches....
> 
>  
> 
> But wait! There's more! This is going to be a long-chaptered fic, so if there's something that you wish would have happened in this chapter, it's entirely likely that it _will_ happen down the road. Patience, my loves. Patience.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, baby! Apologies for the long delay. I couldn't figure out how to bridge the gap between what I'd written and what I wanted to write, so it took me a while to get this done. Plus, late Christmas at my parents' happened.

The overwhelming urge to beat the living shit out of that fucking stray had not surprised him; the visceral need to feel the pain in his knuckles as they hit bone, something that steel could not provide. What had surprised him was his restraint, only thinly aided by the stray's words of defense, that he'd only been trying to protect her. It'd been mostly the dull awareness that somewhere behind him, Sansa had had enough sense to stay out of his way, yet he knew that she wouldn't want him to rearrange the knight's face. Her kindly demeanor would beg forgiveness, surely, as soon as he started.

But she'd kept quiet, and that broke something in him, the little shred he'd had left that remained intact. That she knew what it meant to him to have the opportunity to see the life drain out of brother's eyes.

He'd never said as much to her. Just, somehow she knew.

So he'd had to quell his bloodlust, and as he looked into the dancing sun of the flames, he tried to reason with that demon who so craved death. Gregor was dead. That was what mattered. In the long run, the point was that he couldn't destroy anyone else's lives. The monster was vanquished. But oh, how he yearned to see those last seconds, when he knew it was over. He'd been dreaming about it for over half his life. It was the sole force that drove him all those years, and only presently had a sliver of something else been allowed in: the search for those tiny touches that she would meek out.

He watched as his brother's skin blistered, like his own had when he'd pressed him to the flames. Then as it split apart at the heat, surely similar to how his father's had when the arrow had pierced through his skin. _Hunting accident, my arse._ Finally as the greasy puddle of his fat was wicked up by the pine, like the candles his sister used to read her poems by. Sandor stared into the flames for hours as his brother burned, not a single emotion aside from the relief that he was dead, the anger that he hadn't been the one to do it. And as the flames died and the smoking ash remained, the realization that if he hadn't been alone in the world before, he truly was now. He was the last Clegane. Rightly so, too.

The little bird had stayed. He was relieved she hadn't chirped her courtesies, for he didn't know what he would say if she had. He was probably only capable of spitting his vitriol at her, and she didn't deserve that. None of this was her fault.

_You didn't have to stay._

_I won't leave you alone, Sandor._

Gods, what the fuck was that stinging in his eyes? That odd tingling in his nose? Must be the smoke. He turned from her view, the sudden wetness on his cheeks a baffling thing; surely a sign of weakness for it only happened to girls and children. And then she'd twined her fingers with his, the length of her arm against his, the weight of her body unknowingly pressed uncomfortably into his damaged side. The lean of her head on his arm. He didn't know if she was seeking comfort from him for what had happened, or if she was offering it. How would he know if it was the latter? It had never been given to him. Yes, she'd been attentive in the infirmary. But that was out of a false sense of duty. This was… something else.

So he let her stay there, her eyes and her lips giving him the space he needed, but her body tethering him so as not to fall apart.

 

* * *

 

Edwyn appeared around nightfall, the stars starting to poke out above the clearing of the valley, a full moon illuminating the peaks of the ripples in the lake. If not for the morbid scene around them, it might have been a rather nice night. If he could even be bothered to care about those sort of things.

The knight wandered back into camp, messing around with something in the trees. Sandor heard him first, his warrior instincts always on alert for threats, but seeing that it was just the stray, he turned back around and Sansa set her head back on his shoulder. He was surprised she'd stuck around that long with her body pressed up against his. But it felt like something that could be ripped away again, like it had been that morning, and so his mind told him to remain rooted there while every other fiber told him to run away. Running wasn't a concept he was used to; only since this little bird. Running away from King's Landing, running away from whatever this sudden unexpected intimacy was. Running away from the strange feeling in his stomach whenever she touched him.

Edwyn came over to sit next to Sansa, that same disapproving look on his face only somewhat concealed with the bruising. He offered them each a piece to dried meat while he surveyed the scene in front of them; the carcass of a Mountain, the untouched bodies scattered in the gravel. “Found those men's horses not too far from here,” he managed through the swelling.

Sansa disconnected from Sandor, righting herself in the gravel while she inspected the dried meat. “Where'd you find it?”

He inclined his head over to the horses tied near the treeline. “In the saddlebags. There's a few more supplies in there that might come in handy, too.”

He'd half a mind to punch him again, his learned way of dealing with conflict almost overriding Sansa's voice in his head telling him to be nice. But he was getting tired of this shit. _He_ was supposed to be taking care of the bird, not this stray. It was _him_ that rescued her from that shit hole, not this stray. And it should have been _him_ that was offering her dinner and a way out of here instead of this stray. But instead, he'd taken the time to sit in the fucking sand and do _nothing_ while the Lannisters probably worked out that Gregor and his men mysteriously hadn't returned. It was his fault that they were still sitting here, vulnerable. Not the stray's.

Sandor looked over to the man, chewing on the tough meat the stray had given him as he evaluated the injury he'd inflicted. _Perhaps that wasn't necessary_. But dammit, he'd wanted to do the deed for as long as he could remember. The residual anger from having that taken from him overshadowed the helpful things the stray'd done for them recently.

“We should get going soon,” he rasped simply and Edwyn nodded in agreement. “Go find Stranger, wherever he ran off to.”

The knight looked over at him, questioning the proposal. “We have horses.”

“I'll not leave my horse. We'll find him before we set out again,” Sandor insisted. He wouldn't leave his best friend. His _only_ friend.

“That'll take up time that we can't afford, Sandor.”

He bristled at the use of his name, the persistence of the knight to be familiar. “Then you're welcome to go along by yourself. The girl and I will go find the horse.”

Edwyn narrowed his eyes at him, the effort contorting his face oddly with the swelling. “You won't take her by yourself.”

“And I'm not leaving the horse.” Sandor raised his eyebrows, his tone tinged with the air of finality. “We'll see what we can find in the village and then we'll head off.”

“We can't track in the dark,” the knight argued.

“You don't have to come along.”

“You're not going to be able to do anything in the dark!” Edwyn reiterated, the frustration in his voice evident.

Sandor opened his mouth to assert his stance, but Sansa interrupted. “It's a full moon. Is that enough to track in? Plus, the longer we wait, the farther away he might get.” The bird had a point.

Edwyn looked at her, bewildered. “Sansa…”

She held up a hand to silence him, “I'll not lose Stranger, either. He's taken us this far, and besides, he's a mean horse. He could be valuable down the line as another means of defense.”

“Sansa, I'm not saying _not_ to find him, I'm just-”

“Ser, that _is_ what you were saying just a minute ago. We will look for Stranger, and if we can see the tracks in the moonlight, then we will continue. If not, then we stop and camp for the night.”

_Little bird's talons are out…_

“I just don't think it's a good idea if-”

“And we'll look for what we can before we head out,” she glared at him.

“I don't think you should be making the decisions, with two more experienced-”

She held up her hand at him again, halting his sentence. “Ser. I thank you for all that you've done for us. Truly, I appreciate all your efforts. But with my brother King in the North, I am a princess, which you should know outranks a knight. Stranger is an important part of this journey, and we will look for him forthwith. And besides, I trust Sandor's judgment. If he believes he can track at night, we should at least try.” _Big talons._

Edwyn shut his mouth indignantly, taken aback by her sudden stiffness. He was silent for a moment, clearly weighing whether to talk back to her or to just accept his position in the group's hierarchy.

But if knights were below princesses, and ordinary men below knights, that meant, once again, that he was the dog at their feet. _Better her dog than Joffrey's bitch_.

He stood to start looking in the rubble, offering Sansa his hand once he was up. She took it with a curt nod at the knight, punctuating the end of the discussion.

After a time, they heard the crunch of gravel as he settled to her decision, following after them.

 

* * *

 

How it had made it through the blaze was a miracle, and as her fingers clutched on to the rough wool, he wondered how it hadn't burned. Sandor pulled at the stones of the chimney atop it, uncovering the rest of the cloth while she tugged at it to pull it free.

“I don't know how this didn't burn...” she observed, mystified.

“Aye, little bird.”

The last of the stones were set aside, and she dug hungrily through the ash, checking to see how singed it was. “The stones must have protected it,” she replied absently, shaking out the fabric; a collection of dirty threads that looked awfully familiar.

Edwyn wandered over, the blade of an ax in his hand, its handle burned away along with the village. “What are you doing with a Kingsguard cloak, little wolf?”

He could ask the same question. _Why did she keep that_?

“It was… left behind. I thought maybe it would be of use later,” she explained as she shook out the material and wrapped it around her shoulders. But the words sounded odd on her tongue; a lie. True, he'd left it behind. But it was an act of rebellion, of telling the king he could go fuck himself. Not as a gift to a little bird who deserved so much more than some charred bloody cloak. She looked over at him ashamedly, her eyes begging his silence. Sandor eyed her skeptically, but gathered the things they'd managed to find: a small knife, its bone handle popped and splintered from the heat, but still useful, and a ceramic pot she insisted they keep, seeing that her pewter goblet was missing.

“Shall we go, then?” she asked, shrouded in the too-long, still too-white abomination, as she turned to head back to the horses.

 

* * *

 

It took several hours of convincing, but eventually she conceded to at least putting that awful thing in one of the saddlebags. The pale wool was a beacon through the forest with the full moon, at if nothing else, it would only serve to draw attention. There was something that pulled at some unknown string in his chest that she clung to it so, at he was rather glad once it was tucked away and he didn't have to think on it any longer.

It was slow going, but the width of Stranger's hooves were easy enough to distinguish among the pine litter, heading back in the direction they'd come. Hopefully, and with any luck, he hadn't run off too far and they would be back on the way to their destination soon.

 

* * *

 

_Thank the gods_ , Sansa thought as they cautiously hovered under the protection of the trees just outside a clearing. Stranger stood in the middle, slowly finishing the mouthful of grass he'd ripped from the ground while he listened to the movement in the woods. His bridle was torn across his cheek, a remnant of rope and a branch he must have gotten snagged on hanging from the leather. She shifted as she watched Sandor circle closer to him through the trees, and his ears shifted to the sound.

Edwyn, Sansa, and the other horses hung back in the trees while Sandor approached his horse, the mean old beast stamping angrily when he realized who was approaching. She watched as Stranger startled, running in a circle around his master a few times until he settled enough that Sandor could grab a hold of his bridle. He pulled the branch free and inspected the bridle, then ran his hand along Stranger's nose. She couldn't make out the words, but she could hear his voice drifting back over to them in the breeze. Soft, reassuring, soothing. So against what she'd always known of him until recently. Stranger calmed and Sandor led him back over to them, checking the bridle for stability before he tied him to a branch lest he run away again.

“Is he alright?” she asked as he approached, and he nodded his head.

“Seems to be. Just scared.”

“I don't blame him with those flames. I would run, too.” For a moment, she wasn't sure if she was talking about Stranger or the other beast, the one who was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite put her finger on.

“Aye. He'll be alright.” He looked up at the sky, at the rain clouds that were rolling in. “Probably best to settle for the night. Head out at first light.” His eyes drifted over to Edwyn, seeking a second opinion, something she rarely saw him do.

Edwyn nodded back, his cheek considerably less swollen from its state a few days ago, before they'd started their tracking. But they'd found it was still painful for him to talk, so a nod would have to do. No unnecessary words.

They set about making camp, what little of their supplies that were left. Sandor let them have both of the bed rolls, the ones that were still attached to the saddles of Gregor's men's horses. There wasn't much in the way of dinner; the men evidently hadn't planned on being gone very long, or already had, because there were only a few pieces left of the dried meat. Both of her guardians were too exhausted to hunt, and so they sat in front of the fire, Sandor and Sansa chewing on the tough meat, and Edwyn sipping a broth of it out of the ceramic pot she'd found.

“Where are we headed from here?” The truth was, she knew where they were headed. To the Twins to meet up with her brother. They'd talked about it already. But for lack of other conversation, she resorted to rehashing plans they'd already made.

“Through the canyons to the Trident, little bird. You know that,” Sandor answered, a wad of meat tucked into his cheek.

“How long might it take?” She looked between both men, Edwyn watching Sandor for his answer.

“A sennight. Maybe two depending on company.” _Company_ . She knew what that meant. _Depending on how many people they have to kill_. She wondered if they would be able to do it; Edwyn with his jaw and Sandor with whatever injury he wouldn't tell them about. Whatever was making his breaths short and his movements guarded.

“Will Stranger be alright for that?”

“Aye, I wager he'll be fine. Just spooked was all. Have to ride bareback, though. His tack's lost in the rubble.” They looked over to the beast, covered in the blackness of the forest behind them with just his red eyes glinting in the dark. “Probably good for him, anyway. He's not used to having it on this long.”

“Aren't they… bred for that?” She felt stupid asking such a question. Surely, horses didn't care what was on them. They were meant to be ridden, right?

“Depends on the breed,” Edwyn piped up, massaging his cheek as he spoke.

“Aye. Stranger's a warhorse; good for a battle, not so much for long distances. And they should get a rest more frequently.” He thought for a moment, the fire popping in between them as rain started to fall. He nodded his head in the direction they hadn't been yet. “But, we've got to get you home.”

 

* * *

 

The fire crackled in front of them, angrily sputtering as the raindrops filtered through the trees into its flames. Edwyn was fast asleep across from them, leaning up against one of the bigger trees, his legs bent up to keep out of the rain. Sansa scooted over to Sandor, situated similarly to the knight, and arranged his Kingsguard cloak out over her as a blanket. What she really wanted was to be tucked under his arm instead of just being closer to the radiation of his warm body, but the lady in her prevented her from moving the last few inches.

His eyes slid over to her, watching as she smoothed the pleats over her legs. “Why'd you keep it?” he rasped, his voice hushed so as not to wake the stray.

“Why'd you leave it?” She looked up in to those grey eyes, their stony walls up.

“That's not an answer, little bird.”

_Three hundred thirty five._

“I'm not really sure.” He only blinked back at her, willing for more of an answer than that cop out. “I suppose I didn't know if you would make it...” His eyebrows raised, twisting those awful scars that had started to grow on her for some inexplicable reason. “Well, you know. You heard me in the infirmary,” she tried.

“Do go on,” he prodded.

“You were my only friend,” she hushed, making her voice so low she almost didn't hear it herself. “And I didn't know if you'd make it. So it was something to remember you by.” Gods, if there was anything more perplexing than the urge to crawl under his arm to shield herself from the look on his face, she didn't know what it would be. But her skin itched to be touched by him, confounding as it was.

“You should have burned it.” His eyes locked back to the darkness of the forest, his attentions now otherwise diverted.

She outlined one of the burned patches, one she remembered was there before the most recent events. Its circumference was jagged, the once pristine white wool now brown and the center crumbled away. “It already was burned,” she chided.

He turned back to her, the expression on his face still unreadable, and she felt the jumble of nerves in her belly kick back up again. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smirk, “Aye, it was.”

“Why did you come that night?” While not permanently in the forefront of her mind, the question still plagued her. _Why_ my _chambers? Of all of them?_

He was silent for a time, absently picking at the handle of his sword with his thumbnail. He was weighing his answer, that much was apparent, like he seemed to do with the more important questions she asked of him. Finally, his eyes settled back onto that invisible spot in the forest, avoiding her probing gaze. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

Somehow, that answer was a let down. A half-truth. “Oh. Is that all?” She didn't know what she was expecting…

“I would have taken you away that night, if you'd wanted.”

But how could he have? He couldn't even stand.

Her hand sought his again, her eyes watching his while he stared at their flesh meeting. It was a strange thing; to be able to quiet a man such as himself with a touch. But she watched him while he watched her, her fingers running up his palm until they laced into his, her thumb sliding over the meaty bit of muscle at the juncture of his knuckles.

“I don't know that I would have gone. You were in rather rough shape.”

“Aye. Mayhap it wasn't that, then.”

She looked down at their clasped hands, how his fingers had curled over hers. The first time it had been reciprocated. “Then what was it?”

_Say it. Say what you mean._ Her stomach was a maelstrom of nerves, now, his unspoken words a torturous uncertainty.

“Mayhap I...” he began, his voice as quiet as hers had been a few minutes ago. “…got lost...”

_Hounds don't lie._ But Hounds are too often kicked to be completely frank, it would seem, too.

“I don't believe that,” she scolded, scooting closer to him. The lady would have to wait for another day to win. She pulled his arm up, the look on his face clearly _'what do you think you're doing?,'_ and tucked herself under it. He hovered over her shoulder, unsure where to put his arm so he wouldn't touch her, and if she hadn't reached up to pull it down over her shoulder, perhaps he would have stayed like that all night. But with her silent instructions, he settled around her like a great big wing, and she pulled the tattered old Kingsguard cloak over his legs, too. _Gods, this is so much warmer_.

And so she drifted off, pressed up against his chest with his arm draped over her shoulders, his body stiff under her through his certain, tangible alarm at her sudden proximity. But there, under the protection of his body and his cloak, nothing could hurt her. There may have been men after them, they may have been on the run, but in that moment, as her lips curved into a content smile, there was no safer place.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of links this time around, now that we're making our way away from the lake:  
> [Muted colors and dewy landscapes](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/5f/9e/52/5f9e52b5705a045ddf95e084b21b74d8.jpg)  
> [Starting to be more dramatic scenery](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/83/5e/9b/835e9bc56253f441b91fd198e02fedb6.jpg)  
> [Some horse love](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/df/ec/66/dfec660f2ca2980f50fbe265b41603f1.jpg) Left to right: Sansa's, Edwyn's, Stranger.  
> [An updated map](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/8d/5b/11/8d5b1111e174a11e3faa052da38e0a8b.png)
> 
> Apologies for those that were tuning into this update around 2-ish a.m. PST... I decided to make some changes before a lot of people read it. :)

They were getting far too close. He could see the good in the man, of course. It wasn't that difficult once you knew what to look for. He looked after Sansa. Cared for his animal in a way that was perfectly respectable. And from what he could tell, he was honest and honorable and kind. Even if it seemed the latter attribute was only directed at her.

But he was not of noble birth, and a princess's reputation called for something higher than a lord of a landed house. True, he likely still had the winnings from the Tournament of the Hand; not even a man with the reputation for whoring and drinking such as himself would have been able to go through that in only five years.

That was another thing: his reputation for violence, for favoring establishments of ill repute, for drinking himself into stupors that frankly seemed like it would jeopardize his position guarding the boy king. Add that to the list of pros and cons: that he was trusted enough by the Lannisters to personally guard their highest ranking official.

And then he'd thrown it away. And for what? The life he'd known surely must have been good, at least better than being on the lam.

Edwyn looked over to them through the shifting smoke of the fire, the lavender dawn light filtering through it like some sort of dance.

He'd never seen her more content. Even in sleep, her mouth was twisted up in a smile, her features more relaxed curled up next to that monstrous man than at any time in recent memory. Sandor glared over at him through the smoke screen, knowing how it normally ended when they were caught. _Not this time_ , his eyes warned.

He'd let them have that moment. But he made a note to make a point of asking this man what his intentions were for the princess; what he planned on doing once they returned her to her brother.

 

* * *

 

Once they left the rocky terrain of the forest, the pines thinned, and the thick endless swarm of trees broke into rolling hills of amber autumn grass and low ochre flowers. She found herself thinking, not for the first time, that if they hadn't been on the run, hadn't been in danger, hadn't been at war… it might have been beautiful. But she couldn't find it in her heart to think those things now. Not in their present situation. And so she blindly stared out across the fields, the morning dew lazily dripping from their leaves as the horse's hooves tramped past.

It felt odd to be on her own horse, the dappled grey stallion plodding along through the soggy soil as it followed the others. The entirety of the trip had been spent tandem with Sandor, and now all of a sudden, with the extra horse, that closeness had been taken away. She'd thought about telling them to leave him behind; that she would just ride with Sandor like she'd been doing. But the concocted image of this horse all by itself in the forest, separated from the rest of its comrades was enough to set aside her personal feelings. She'd once overheard her father telling her sister _'the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.'_ Maybe it was the same for horses…

In front of her, Edwyn rode atop the liver chestnut he'd found, the little white stocking on his back leg slowly hypnotizing her as she watched him move through the grass. Sandor was behind her, a little out of place atop his naked mount, the rope from before tied to his bridle as makeshift reins.

She'd just been drifting off into a lovely daydream about a dark-haired non-knight and a fair maiden when Sandor trotted up next to her and snapped her out of it. “Don't be falling off, now,” he warned, but the spark in his eye betrayed his jape. _Or else I'll have to ride with you._

“I won't.” Even though she thought maybe it would give her the excuse to ride with him again.

He eyed her skeptically, obviously aware of the wavering in her voice, then set his eyes back on the horizon and the sun approaching it. “About another hour and we'll stop. Think you can manage?”

She glared back at him, the jape not missed.

 

* * *

 

Sandor and Edwyn busied themselves setting snares on the bluff above Sansa, their hands working at the twigs and threads while she brushed the two amiable horses below, Stranger standing petulantly off to the side. The non-knight's stomach gurgled as he thought about the animals they stood to trap, and the dinner it might bring. The meager amount of food they'd had recently wasn't enough to sustain the peckish little bird's body, let alone his hulking frame. A gopher or squirrel would be a welcome change.

He set his snare, making sure the noose held and moved on to scout another good spot for one. Edwyn was a few yards away, his noose lying on the ground over some creature's den entrance.

“You're doing it wrong,” he called over, working at tying the braided bit of thread in his hand into another noose.

The knight leaned back on his haunches, inspecting the work he'd just done and seeing nothing wrong with it. “How so?” he managed through the swell of his cheek.

“You don't have any leverage. How would it pull up to catch them?” he asked, nodding over to indicate his freshly set one: a sapling bent over for a spring, some twig pegs, the threaded noose propped up over a freshly-used trail. “If it's just laying on the ground it's not going to catch on anything.”

He tightened the knot he was working on with his teeth and walked over to the knight. “Here,” he said, not ungently, picking up some twigs to prop the noose up and better afford a chance to catch. “That should work.”

Edwyn inspected his changes, the simple but necessary improvements. “Thank you,” he called to Sandor's back as he walked away, only receiving a grunt in return.

The bigger man was silent for a moment, stooping to collect more twigs for another trap. “How is it you can kill a deer from a hundred yards, but you don't know how to set a snare?”

“Never needed to, I suppose.”

“Well, you'll have to learn. Deer aren't always around.”

“And why do you know? Didn't the Lannisters keep you fed?”

“Aye, but I didn't always live with them. And I always was shite at a bow. Dogs are better scavengers.”

“You shouldn't speak so harshly of yourself,” the knight looked up, meeting the odd furrow of Sandor's brow. “It just takes practice. Next town, if I can find a decent bow, I'll help you.”

“I don't need your help,” he rebuffed, but evidently the stray didn't buy that particular line of bull shit, and just shrugged back at him.

“Well, if you want...”

They worked across the bluff, scouting for more tracks, more evidence of life and potential food. All the while, Sandor stewing over the knight's offer of assistance. _As if I need it._ He was skilled with a sword. And gods damn it, he wasn't about to go demean himself to the fucking stray; stooping so low to ask for _help_.

He paused after setting another snare, peeking over the ridge to the little bird warming herself by the fire, the horses tended to and wanting for something else to keep her occupied.

Edwyn began somewhere behind him, ignoring the fact that Sandor had just been an arse. “So what are your plans once you return her, Clegane?”

He turned, seeing the smaller man bent over and inspecting a trail. “What's it to you?”

The stray leaned back from his inspection, an arm draped over his knee like always. “Well, you're freshly out of a job, and you're a wanted man. Surely you must have thought about it.”

In truth, he hadn't. Not thoroughly, anyway. He was mostly focused on getting the girl back safely, and after that, he hadn't put a whole lot of thought into it. Probably find a job as a sell sword somewhere. Take the black, maybe. “Not much.”

“And her brother? What's he like to do with you, gallivanting across the kingdom with his sister?”

“Thank me for returning her. And if he doesn't, my sword with convince him otherwise.”

“The Starks don't take kindly to threats, if you hadn't noticed,” he warned. “Need I remind you what started this bloody war?” Sandor raised his brows at that; true, Lady Catelyn had jumped to conclusions about Tyrion, and the Lannisters about the Starks, and this whole mess had been created over some perceived threat.

“Aye, you've the right of it,” he admitted.

“May I suggest- and forgive me if I assume too much. But what about swearing yourself as her shield? You've kept her safe well enough this far.”

_The fuck?_

“From what I heard in the capital, if not for you during the Bread Riots, she'd be lacking her honor.”

“Aye, but a Hound doesn't need courage to chase off rats.”

“No. No, he doesn't. Might need it to ask it of the King in the North, though.”

Sandor eyed him warily, doubting the sincerity of his words. He'd yet to see this man with any of the northmen, and for all he knew, he could be some spy for the Lannisters… but he'd done no harm this far…

“Besides, I failed her with the worst of them,” he hid the wince from his ribs, the aftermath of the fight with his brother. Why don't you do it, if you're the one that killed _the Mountain_?” It gave him pleasure to sneer over at the other man, but his expression didn't share the sentiment.

“I'm sorry about that. I should have let you...”

Sandor brought his hand up to rub at a sore spot in his neck; probably brought on from carrying himself so oddly the past few days. The memory of her kicking legs, her body carelessly tossed over Gregor's shoulder… her screams… it replayed back in his mind like some kind of haunting dream. “You did what you needed to do for Sansa.” It was as much of an acceptance of the apology as the knight would get, and he seemed to mull the words over for a minute.

“Well, in any case… I could put in a good word for you with the king. I've done well for him in battle, and it may help if I say something on your behalf. If you would want it.”

He was dubious of the knight's words, but it was better than the options he'd come up with. But the likelihood of her brother agreeing to that was almost non-existent.

“If that will make you feel better,” he said, sarcasm dripping off his tongue and his scars twisting horrifically in a mocking smile. He turned at that, heading back down the hill to go check on the bird. “But I doubt she would want that,” he added over his shoulder.

He'd almost made it out of earshot of the stray when he heard, “And how long have you loved her, Clegane?”

The thought cut through his breastbone, and he shut his eyes at the possibility. Thankfully his back was to the knight, who was none the wiser to his reaction. _Seven hells_ , what the fuck was going on?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little guy while I try to find the time to write. I got a wild hair last week and signed up for classes at our community college, and a full course-load, at that! So now with a full time job and full time class schedule.... it's not looking so good for spare time! But I'll try. I have things outlined in my head, so it's just a matter of getting them down in words. Hold tight! It might be a while, but I'll be back! <3

He was in another one of his moods, and he had been for days. They'd made it to the canyons, with their jaggedy-steep walls and scrawny sage clinging to the ledges. A few days warranted them halfway through, but still there hadn't been more than five sentences between her and her non-knight.

That first night, when they'd been setting snares and he'd come grumbling down the hill, he'd taken to hacking at a laurel off in the distance. Chips of wood had gone flying, and the branches quivered and shook, and she wasn't able to quite make out the particular words, but she could tell that a string of curses was being yelled at the innocent tree. What exactly had happened up on the bluff, she didn't know, but it seemed to be the cause of his anger. That much she'd worked out by now.

The second night, he'd  diligently set about sharpening his sword, working to repair the edge he'd dulled on the tree.  The fire had popped in between the three of them, just like the loaded silence, but she couldn't bring herself to pester him about this sudden change in his mood. Perhaps it was just a passing thing. Perhaps she would wake in the morning and everything would be fine.

But then the third, he'd stalked out of camp and didn't return the rest of the night. She could see him plainly in the waning moonlight, his silhouette clear against the night sky up on the ridge above them. Watching but separate, giving her the protection she needed but not the companionship she craved.

She'd given up trying to snuggle up to his warmth any longer; after the first night when she'd waited for Edwyn to fall asleep to scooch over to him, only to be rebuffed with a stern  _no_ . And Edw yn was silent on the subject and completely unhelpful,  only shrugging his shoulders every time she'd asked him what had transpired.

_Men_ , she thought, silently cursing their brooding.

 

So now she sat upon her horse,  pondering the constant scroll of the landscape as they moved through it and singing the songs she could still remember to pass the time. She'd gotten most of the way through her repertoire, the ones about fair maidens and brave knights, audible children's stories, really, about true love and beautiful castles before Sandor finally turned around to glare at her.

“Will you stop singing that shite?” he growled over his shoulder. “Shouldn't you know by now that those songs aren't true?”

“I'm sorry, I...” she began, her courtesies coming automatically.  _No. No, he's being mean. I wasn't doing anything wrong!_ Sitting up a little straighter in her saddle, mustering up the courage borne out of her frustration of his moodiness, she pursed her lips and glared back at him. “Why must you always be so  spite ful?”

“ I'm not being spiteful, believe me,” he sneered, turning back to the road and effectively meaning to end the conversation.

_No. You don't get to end this_ . She tapped on her horse's sides to speed him up and worked her way up to her cranky companion. “What is  _with you_ ?” she hissed,  leaning down a little in the saddle to try to see his eyes. But he just kept them on the land in front of them, denying her the attention she was trying to get. “You've barely said a word to me the past few days. Did Edwyn say something to you? Did  _I do_ something?” Though she could scarcely think what it would be.

“You haven't done anything, bird.”  _Bird. 'Quit your chirping.'_ She could feel her ire rising, indignant that he would even imply such a thing when she hadn't said anything  offensive to him in the first place. Not really.

“Then Edwyn?” she probed. He shot her a glance that she couldn't quite read, so she thought on it a bit more. The weather still hadn't really cleared, misty mornings sticking around until far into the afternoon, and even then sometimes not burning off with the sun. He was used to the south, the warmth. Maybe he was cranky because of the weather? “Is it because of this?” She waved her arm at the grey around them.

“ No,” he replied simply, still maintaining his assumed nonchalance.

“Your brother, then?” she tried.

He well and truly glared at her then. “ _No_ ,” he answered through his teeth.

“Then  _what?”_ she asked, flinging her arms out at her sides rather dramatically.

“It's none of your _business_ ,” he growled, the flint in his eyes begging her to stop her interrogation.

“It's my business if you're not happy.”

“When am I ever happy, little bird?” he asked, eyes still on the soggy hills in front of him.

“You would be a lot happier if you chose to be.”

“I'm not a liar.”

“Is that what this is about, then? You're not happy? Are we so much of a burden that you can't wait to be free again?” That wasn't something she'd really thought about. What would he do once she was safely in the hands of her family? Edwyn had mentioned it once. About asking him to be her sworn shield. And she'd hoped maybe that he would stay. But they'd not discussed it. And honestly, with the way his moods shifted like sunlight through stormclouds, she wasn't sure she wanted that so close. But he was free to do what he wished… had he ever had that opportunity before? “You can leave us in the next town if it's so awful. Edwyn can get me to Robb.”

He wouldn't turn his head, but she saw his scars twitch just faintly at her words. A wince almost. “Aye, might be I will.”

She hadn't expected it to hurt so much; that her guess might actually be true. But the sudden pit in her stomach threatened to burn through, just like the fiery tears she blinked away. “If that's what you want,” she managed, keeping her voice as even as she could before pulling back on the reins. She looped away from him, and for the rest of the day, the only songs that came to her mind were the ones full of sorrow.


	23. Chapter 23

Gods, he needed some wine. Needed to drown out the incessant feeling of inadequacy every time he thought of her, needed the memory of his brother to blur even further into oblivion than it already was. Needed for _fucking once_ not to have to be on guard, on edge, alert all the _fucking time_. Even though it came naturally.

 

That's what the wine was for. To drive out those instincts.

 

Though it hadn't managed to drown out all of them _that_ night. The night the city had turned that unearthly green and the cobblestones under his feet swam an odd sort of dance as he climbed his way back up to the keep. To her chambers. To do gods only knows what. Steal a kiss and a song and maybe more if he could bring himself to do it. Thank the gods, if there were any, that he hadn't even made it very far as through her threshold before he'd collapsed. He liked to think he wouldn't have harmed her, but that night… with the world burning… who knew? A desperate man does things he often doesn't expect.

 

He ran his thumb along the edge of his blade, the ridges of his fingerprints tap-tapping almost silently against the peak of it. She shifted in her sleep, the copper of her hair all but turned to liquid silver in the milky moonlight, the colors washed out with the absence of sun. Those low-lying late autumn flowers on the hill between them bunched up and in on themselves without the light, like she'd done when he stopped being nice. If nice would ever be used to describe anything about him. _Doubt it_. He plucked one up from its roots and mashed it against the blade just because he could. _Delicate useless thing._

 

But how the fuck could he continue this charade; this mummer's farce that she cared for him, that the queer feeling his guts made when she touched him would come to be anything other than what he knew would happen? She'd go back to her brother, he'd marry her off to some richling, some man with a whole face and a whole heart, and she'd forget all about the damaged dog digging for the scraps at her feet. Better just to push her away now.

 

* * *

 

The inky black of the night lightened to the clouded grey of morning, and she found herself, for once, awake before the boys. Sandor was up at his hilltop perch, though his eyes were shut against the soft morning light and his arms folded across his chest; his only blanket against the cold. She thought with a clench of her stomach and a purse of her lips that he would be warmer if he would stop being such an idiot and come back into camp. Back where she could share his warmth, too.

 

She picked up the water skins and tip-toed her way to the little stream at the edge of camp, giving her horse a scratch on the nose as she passed. Stranger eyed her sleepily, too early to be a grump.

 

The dew grass was soft underfoot as she climbed the hill to the tree he leaned against, the perpetually soggy ground quieting her approach. She stooped to lay a skin against his leg, not wanting to wake him up just yet if she could help it. She noticed his breeches needed mending. There was a rip in one of the knees, a fray here and there that would turn into bigger repairs if they weren't tended to soon. She clucked under her breath as she made to stand, taking a quick sweep of his face and finding that two stone eyes watched her movements, sanguine and hollow. Not asleep after all.

 

Her mouth straightened to a line, caught, unsure of what to say in greeting. _Good morning, ser._ That would surely just make him angrier, though it might be worth it just to rile him. _I thought you might need water_. No, then she was thinking on him.

 

He drew in a breath to say something, and she turned and headed down the hill before he had a chance to spit it out. A startled bird, flying away from conflict and the words that she fretted over wanting to say to him. _Later_. It was too early in the morning for another fight.

 

* * *

 

The afternoon wasn't much better. Edwyn had gone off some hours ago to check the snares he'd set the night before, and Sandor was left to tend to babysitting. She hated it. She felt like a child, always having to be looked after. But the reality was that she wasn't safe by herself. They'd still yet to come across a Lannister man, almost entirely by sheer luck. A little careful planning of their route may have helped, too, she supposed.

Sansa worked at stitching a hole in one of her stockings, her naked foot twisting around absently in the grass and her skirt hitched up to her calf, her skilled fingers working at the shoddy needle they'd scrounged out of the soldiers' saddlebag. Sandor sat atop a crumbling log across from her, pretending to be very focused on the state of his dagger. She frowned up at him, the point of it running under his fingernail now, his eyes downcast and avoiding her scorn.

“So are you ever going to talk to me?” She'd tried for an airy voice, but it came out angrier than she'd intended.

“What do you want to talk about?” he asked his dagger.

“What interests you?” she tried.

“Not much.” _That you're interested in,_ she finished for him. _Whores and wine and killing._ Surely there must be something else to this man.

“Fine, then,” she pouted, returning her crude needle to jab at the wool again.

A moment ticked by. A minute. Then several. She glanced up through her lashes. Still inspecting.

He sighed heavily; a bellows pressing and filling, stoking a fire that was not there. “You should think of what you need in town, for when we get there.”

_We?_

“Are you going to stay, then?”

“Likely not.” _O_ _h._

“Then why should you care?”

“I don't, I just-” he started, finally looking up. “Oh bugger it,” he finished under his breath.

“Just what?” Her voice was a needle jab, he was a stocking. She would mend him.

“Nothing.”

She glared, pursed her lips. The movement was becoming a habit.

A bird flew down between them, diverting their attention to something neutral. It hopped-hopped back and forth in the grass, its little scrubby yellow feet scratching the dirt for seed or worms or whatever the Seven a bird eats. Sansa stared, watched its ruddy brown feathers puff at a breeze, the white and black of its head turn and inspect the ground. “If you could be an animal, what would you be?” Her voice was absent, dreamy. _I would be a wolf. Not a little bird hopping in the dirt for food._ Poke poke at the stocking.

“I'm a dog, remember?” he ground through his teeth, eyes empty aside from a flash of something she couldn't pinpoint.

“You're not a dog,” she coaxed, relaxing the frown she hadn't realized had set. “You're whatever you want to be.”

“I am a dog,” he repeated, “and you're a pretty little bird from the summer isles.”

The bird hopped in between them, oblivious it was being discussed. Sandor searched for a pebble in the dirt and hucked it at it. Expectedly, it flew away chirping angrily at him.

“That wasn't nice.”

“I'm not a nice man.”

She glared at him a beat too long. “No, you're not.”

 

* * *

 

Gods, where the fuck was that stray? He'd been gone too long. _Doesn't take that long to check traps_. He needed a shit and to be done with this buggering empty talk. Where the _fuck_ was the stray?

She'd finished with the stocking, was packing the needle and thread back into the saddlebag. He tipped his head over to her in acknowledgment, “Stay by Stranger.”

The tidepools of her eyes were instantly wide. “Why, what's happened?”

He set his hand out, like he would when Stranger would whinny. _Calm down_. “Nothing. Just need to…” _She's a lady_. “I'm going to see if I can find Edwyn.” It wasn't a lie, just not all of it.

“Oh. Don't be long?”

“Aye,” he assured, heading up the hill toward the canyon in the direction the knight had gone that morning.

 

* * *

 

The series of snares leads him over the hills, to the bluff that dips into a deeper canyon. There he is in the plateau of it, the narrow space of sage and soggy grass, bent down and inspecting a snare. His face is set in a frown, probably would be cursing at something if he ever did such a thing and if his jaw worked properly. Sandor tinges a bit with the slightest flick of remorse, but it's gone just as soon as it crops up. He's done well, at least, for the amount of time he's been out, judging by the little heap of dead animals laying at his side. Bloody fur and tiny paws and something in him feels sad for the things, but its either them or starve.

“You almost finished?” he calls down to the knight, and Edwyn's head tilts up to look at him at the same time Sandor notices movement to his right. _Shit_. “Get up!” he yells, his eyes on the two ears he can see poking up above a sage bush, the long tail lazily flicking as the cat watches his prey. Edwyn doesn't see it, standing up, the snare dangling from his fingers. “Move, you idiot!” he calls, the lion on to the disturbance, but not about to be interrupted from dinner, bruised and unaware that it is.

The knight's face blinks a moment of confusion; he can't call back with the swelling, he doesn't know what's going on, and so when the cat slinks through the brush, Sandor's feet move, too. He _should_ just let it get him. Should just let this cat take care of the problem. Have Sansa to himself. But the knight hasn't done anything wrong, and besides, he's halfway down the hill before the thought even forms fully.

His sword is out, ready to strike, but the cat's charging its dinner now and Edwyn runs. Runs right in the direction he shouldn't have gone, and now he thinks that if that cat drives him off the cliff, it's one more sword she doesn't have to protect her. “Don't _run_!” _Buggering hells, he's going to get himself killed._ His ribs ache with the running and the yelling and he's only a few feet from the cat but the cat's only a few feet from Edwyn. _Shit_. It's gaining on the stray and the stray's closing in on the edge of the cliff, looking over his shoulder as the cat primes itself to jump.

And then he is careening over the side, the cat's sinewy arm swiping the blank air where the stray was. Sandor reaches it; swings at its tail, the closest thing to him, and that just pisses the lion off, so it turns around to reel on him. Its nose curls, yellow fangs and hackles up and gods, that screeching is like some babe being strangled.

Suddenly he realizes that it's been a bit since he's killed anything, and his sword arm itches to swing. But he's never fought this kind of opponent before and lions are sneaky bastards. Its just far enough away again that the sword won't reach and now its circling him, evaluating its chances to go for his neck. A bigger meal. _Not fucking likely_. He wonders if he'll have to haul up Edwyn's dead body once he dispatches this thing, hopes Sansa's safe because that'll take more time than just walking back to camp if he left him to rot.

It circles, circles. He's had about enough of this shit. Not like him to wait to be attacked anyway, and so he swings at the fucking thing. It darts back away, paws quick and sure on the soggy ground, not quite like how it sucks at his boots.

The lion must've made its decision; ears pinning back and tail flicking a last time before it lunges, intent for his throat, and _damn those things can jump high_. But it's only a fucking cat after all and a swing of his sword renders its body pretty much cut in two. The weight of it falls to him, already propelled in his direction, claws already out and primed for an attack that it's not going to have any longer. It's only a third his size, but the momentum of it smacks him in his chest as it falls, and a claw manages to hook through the worn fabric of his breeches, digs in to the meaty bit of his thigh on its way to the ground and tears the flesh like a white-hot poker.

“ _Bugger me_ ,” he curses under his breath as the gash bubbles up with blood, soaks into the olive cotton of his breeches and down his leg. It's probably not as bad as it looks, and he presses his fingers against it once he has his sword sheathed again.

 

The cliff wasn't as bad as he thought, or maybe might have hoped, and when he peered over the edge, the knight was already working his way back up the side. A jolt punched his stomach, and he couldn't tell if it was regret that he hadn't met intimately with some boulders on the way down, or relief that he actually didn't die.

 

“Thanks,” Edwyn said once he reached the top, accepting Sandor's outstretched arm to pull him up over the edge and back onto the plateau. “I didn't even see it,” he explained, motioning to the lump of golden fur, matted now with crimson.

“Aye, figured you didn't.”

"Wouln't the first time a lion's tried to kill me," he mused. It took longer to get back to camp than it to get down there, what with the gash and all, stooping to hold pressure to it. Edwyn took to filling in the silence between them. “So did you figure out what you were going to do, then?”

Sandor sighed, heavy and deep, weighing his response to this nosy knight. “No.”

“Sansa tells me you might be leaving us in Harroway's?”

_Gods damn it_. “Might be.”

“I don't think you should, for what it's worth. You've stuck it out this long, why not finish the thing?”

_It's none of your gods damned business_ , is what he felt like saying. But instead, he just quickened his pace as much as he could to avoid answering. “She'd miss you, you know,” he said to Sandor's back.

 

* * *

 

“ _What happened?”_ Sansa nigh shrieked when they returned, one glance as his leg and all her  womanly fretting returned. She fluttered over to him, clearly forgetting that she was mad at him, and pointed to his leg, the patch of slowly drying cotton and crusty blood.

“It's nothing,” he brushed her off.

“It's  _not_ nothing, Sandor, you're bleeding. Sit down,” she ordered, all concern as she turned to dig in one of the saddlebags. Gods, these two were going to be the death of him. Fretting and worry and why couldn't he just run someone through already and forget about all this constant fuss?

“You'll need to burn it,” Edwyn stated, as if that was even a possibility.  _Not even if the hells froze over._ “Set the skin to close. We're a ways away from a maester to tend to it proper-”

“No fire.”

“It's going to get infected,” as if that wasn't the most obvious thing.  _Aye, but I'd rather it fester than the fire._

_“No fire!”_ he repeated, the grate in his voice all gravel and anger now.

Sansa came back over to him, her crude sewing instruments in one hand and her other reaching up to push on his shoulder. “Let me wash it out at least. I can stitch it up so nothing gets in it,” she said as she silently ordered him to sit  with another nudge to his shoulder . He went down without another thought, that  _whatever she says_ slithering around through him  like some reminder that he was hers whether he wanted to be or not.

“I'll go see if I can find those rabbits,” Edwyn informed them. “I don't think you need my help, do you, Sansa?”

“No, I think we'll be fine.”

“Don't give her any trouble, Clegane,” he warned as he walked out of camp, Sandor glaring at his back and Sansa busying herself  with the ceramic pot and a water skin.

“Can you help me light a fire?” she asked once she'd gathered her things.

“I said no fire, little bird,” he said wearily. She shouldn't even have to be told that wasn't an option.

“It's not for you.” She held up the water skin, “It's for this. I read somewhere that you should boil it first.”

“Fancy yourself a maester, then?” He pushed himself up off the ground, tried to sit back on his haunches to work at the twigs and kindling, but the gash cracked and stung. He hissed a breath and she looked over to him worriedly. 

“Is it terribly painful?”

“It's only a flesh wound,” he noted casually, rubbing a stick between his palms until it caught the kindling. “It probably looks worse than it is.”

“What happened?”

“A lion.”

“Lannisters? Have they found us?” Her brows shot up in alarm, and he laughed at her. 

“No, an actual lion. You know, the cat?”

“ Oh. I thought those were only in the westerlands?”

He thought of that story about his grandfather and his hounds, and the lion and the lord he'd saved. “Aye, but apparently elsewhere, too.”

“Did you kill it?” she asked the fire as he stoked it, and he grunted out an  _aye._

He leaned back on his elbows and stretched his leg back out, watching her as she boiled the water and passed the needle through the flames.

“Ready, then?” she asked as she folded herself up next to him, a cloth in her hand and the little pot of water steaming next to her.

“Aye, little bird. Do what you will to me.”

 

* * *

 

S he tried to think back to the texts she'd read many, many years ago. Back when she cared about more things than just trying to survive. There was one about the proper treatment of wounds, and something about boiled wine and salt and poultices and things they didn't have. But as she stared at the man in front of her, casually regarding her, she forgot all about what she'd been trying to remember. His leg stretched out on front of her, a gash  half the length of her palm square in the middle of his thigh, angry and bloody, and it took all her will to push the bile back down at the sight of it. 

“I'll need to clean it first,” she explained, dipping her little finger into the water to test its temperature. It was pleasantly warm now after it'd cooled from the fire. “I'll try not to hurt you.”

“I don't think you could.”

“Well, tell me if I do,” she insisted, gingerly picking at the fabric of his breeches. She poured a bit of the water into the gash, some of the blood washing away.  Once the obtrusion was gone, it really  _wasn't_ that bad. It wasn't deep. Just jagged and messy and it probably  _would_ need something to hold it together. She unrolled some thread and lined it up with the eye of the needle, her tongue poking out just a bit while she concentrated. “Alright, are you ready?” She looked up at him just as his eyes flicked back up to hers, his attention very evidently on her mouth just previously.  A blush bloomed across her cheeks at the thought, and she cleared her throat nervously. Why was she so nervous all of a sudden?

“Aye.”

It was a bit like her embroidery, if she pretended. Except nothing like it at all. Cloth wasn't that springy, flesh much more yielding to a dull needle and making it harder to punch through. ' _Punch through_ .' She felt another wave of nausea push up at her throat at the connection of what she was referring to, but she continued on nonetheless. She finished and tied off the ends, rather proud of herself that she'd managed it. “There, that wasn't so bad, was it?” she said more to herself than the stoic man next to her. He hadn't even peeped. Maybe it really  _was_ just some little thing to him. Gods, if she'd gotten that, it likely would have been the end of the world for her… though she wondered if that might just be the little girl she used to be who thought those things. Now that she'd been through everything else… 

He bent over to inspect it, grunting something that sounded like an approval. “You did well, little bird.” 

“Thank you.”

He made to get up and her hand darted out to his knee, staying him. “I'm not finished yet.” He raised his eyebrows at her, the canyons of his scars echoing the arch.  _'You're not?'_ She reached for the scrap of cloth she'd brought over and dipped it into the water. “I've still got to clean you up.”

She dabbed at the edges of it, soaking up the rest of the blood. The gash was clean, but the rest of his leg… Without thinking, she smoothed the cloth under the fabric of his breeches, reaching where the blood had run down to his knee and over the side of his thigh. She heard his sharp intake of breath as she moved her hand around, cleaning off his skin. It seemed… well, she didn't know what it seemed. Just that her heart was hammering in her ears thinking of touching him like this, and quite unexpectedly, she found herself tracing a finger across his skin after she'd finished.  _Different than mine_ , she thought of the  muscles underneath her finger, the hair there that was much coarser than hers. She caught herself, out of her miniature reverie, and cleared her throat again. “There, all finished.”

She looked up to him, and his eyes were wide and intent on hers, and she could just make out his pulse on his throat, the quick pace of it. Like hers. 

“Little bird?”

_Three hundred forty-one._

"Please don't leave when we get to town," she whispered.

"Aye."

She watched his pulse  _tap-tap-tapping_ , his lips as he formed the word. A moment too long. Or was it? In an instant, she remembered her hand, the one now resting on that stretch of skin under her most recent sewing project.  _Should I move it? Do I move it? Oh, gods, how long has it even been there?_ She looked to her hand, back up at him, back at his lips, up to those storm clouds of his eyes and there was something there that she hadn't seen before. For a moment, she thought of kissing him. There was something about those eyes… like those little silver stones her brothers used to play with… the ones that stuck together if they got close enough. And it pulled her to them like they were made of the same material.  _When did his face become so close to mine?_

“ Dinner!” Edwyn announced as he strolled into camp, a bundle of dead things at the end of his arm.

Sansa snapped her hand back as if his skin was molten steel, and they both coughed for lack of something else to dissipate the charged air.  _Seven heavens,_ her heart was pounding so fast. “Oh, good, they were still there!” she exclaimed as she stood up, more animatedly than mayhap was warranted. She wandered back over to the horses, putting her things away while Edwyn chattered happily about full stomachs and how rabbit was just the thing they needed right now, and something about nerves and lions. And as she glanced over her shoulder at her patient- guardian-  companion- knight in shining armor who had rescued his princess from the monsters in the poems… he looked just as dazed as she felt.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs devilishly*
> 
> Apologies for the change in tense. I wrote parts of this on different days, and when I went to change it back to the correct tense, it didn't have the same rushed feeling to me, so I kept it like it was. :)


	24. Chapter 24

 

Another blasted league and they'd be in town. Two fucking days and all it had done was pour. It was wet, he was tired, his fucking leg spasmed every time he'd try to move it, and all he'd been able to think about for two nights thus was the fucking way she'd leaned into him. _She'd leaned into me._ The width of his outstretched fingers was all that had separated him from what he'd longed to claim since he'd met her.

 

And gods, if Edwyn hadn't interrupted, he didn't know what he might have done. It was a good thing, though he'd cursed the knight under his breath. It was true; he really _didn't_ know what he would have done if he'd closed that distance. He knew what he _wanted_ to do: the same thing he thought of nigh every night. Press her down into that sodden earth and pump into her until her cheeks were crimson as cardinals' wings and she no longer chirped her courtesies. Leg be damned.

 

Another blasted league and they could go about their business. Get the horses shod. Wash the fucking filth of the road off. Get a saddle for Stranger, supplies. Edwyn had mentioned trying to send word to King Robb.

 

Another blasted league and he could get his mind off of her and that pretty pink mouth of hers.

 

* * *

 

 

_What was it they said? Another few hours until we reach town_ . The men were in an odd sort of mood. _Well_ , she supposed, _we all are_. The last few days had been odd. Sandor had been particularly aloof, though he no longer seemed angry at her, even if he still kept his distance. She yearned for the days when they were on the same horse. When his hand would sometimes inadvertently skim across her thigh on the way to the reins, or when they would climb a particularly tricky hill and she'd feel her back press up against his armor. Always that bit of metal in between, but her mind had been wandering more and more lately. And with that touch of skin the other day, its reaches seemed to be expanding.

 

What might have happened if Edwyn hadn't turned up? She imagined it perfectly in her head: the sun would be just right, all rose and gold and glittering like in the stories. It would catch the flecks in his eyes and he would look at her like she was the most resplendent thing he'd ever captured, his eyes sliding closed just as his lips met hers. _How would they feel?_ Soft, like hers? Rough and angry like his demeanor? His hand would come up to cup her head, he'd lay her back…

 

She could feel her cheeks color even with the thought of it. Ladies shouldn't think such things! But, oh, how she longed to feel such a kiss before she was wed off to some other Lord or another. A fate as certain as the constant beating of the rain they rode through. Maybe she'd be lucky like her father and lady mother. Maybe whoever it was that was chosen for her could be someone she'd be happy with. Though with the record as it stood, it was unlikely. She'd given up holding out such hope for those silly romance stories. The knights in shining armor were always a lie.

 

Maybe Sandor could gift her such a kiss. Something to think on when her lord husband would claim her. Something to think on fondly. Tenderly.

 

* * *

 

 

The hill they perched on afforded a sweeping view of the valley below, all rain-washed and yellowing grass, a dollop of a town right in the center, along the banks of the Trident. The Kingsroad stretched up from the south, its path cutting a ruddy trail through the coloring oak and ash, and swerving into the tight walls of the keep's town.

 

“Almost there,” Edwyn remarked redundantly, though it seemed to mark the end of one part of the journey and the beginning of the next. _Almost_. Her life lived on almosts. Almost saved her father. Almost raped during the bread riots. Almost killed during the Blackwater. Almost free. And now _almost there._ The air suddenly seemed pregnant with her desperate fear that she might lose this almost.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a single inn in the town, the word _Bicephalian_ and two horse heads scrawled on its creaky wooden sign. From afar, the town looked like it held promise, but now they were in it, it was no more than a mess of moldy thatched roofs and ruddy streets, and a crumbling keep jutting out in the middle of it . Sandor was outside with Sansa, she still on her mount and he with his hand on its neck, keeping an eye out over Stranger's back. It was a necessity that they stopped into town, he and Edwyn agreed on that, but he still didn't like it. Too many chances for Lannisters. Too many chances for _anyone_ to come riding up that road and get them killed.

She was quiet; too quiet. Her courtesies all but forgotten and now just letting an uneasy silence between them. She wanted to say something, he could tell. So did he. Something along the lines of _lift up your skirt and we'll pick up where we left off_. But he wouldn't. She wouldn't want that. If nothing else, saying that would only stand to knock her off her horse.

“I don't like it here,” she finally said. “It gives me an uneasy feeling.”

“Aye. War will do that to a town,” he said, eyes searching the crannies of the neighboring shops, wishing Edwyn would hurry the fuck up in that inn.

“Will it only get worse from here?” The road to the Twins. The same one her brother had traveled on his campaign.

“Aye, but at least on the other side of the river, it's friendlier.” _If that could even be true_ . Likely unpatrolled. Rebel soldiers still lurking in the forests in support of the boy king. _They're both boy kings_ , he thought. Robb couldn't be much older than the blonde twat.

“He's been in there a while.”

“Aye.” Gods, did he have any other words in his vocabulary? He tightened his grip on his sword. _Aye, he's been in there too long_ . For once, his thoughts weren't directed at what kind of sheisty business the knight was getting into, but more along the lines of things that could have happened to him. _Why the fuck was he taking so long_?

But he couldn't very well leave Sansa by her godsdamnedself. There was a black-haired boy leering at them from over in the smithy, and he got the uneasy feeling he was evaluating her. _Who wouldn't_ ? Propped up there in that dress that clung to her tits. _Gods_.

 

* * *

 

 

“They only have the one room,” Edwyn informed them when he finally emerged from the shitty inn. “Cost a bloody fortune, too. But at least there's room for the horses and a hot meal.”

Sandor grunted and Edwyn dropped a key in his hand. “If you'll head up, Sansa and I will get the horses put away and we'll be up in a minute.”

_Not bloody likely,_ he thought, his mind on the bird and the knight alone. But it would give him a moment to survey the inn, threaten its keeper without the girl judging him, figure out how it was the stray expected them to fit in one blasted room. “Aye, don't be long. Leave Stranger, I'll come back for him,” he barked and disappeared through the slanted doorway.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sansa, may I have a word?”

She peeked around her stallion's neck, and Edwyn's brows were furrowed with concern. “Yes?”

“It's not my place to ask, but...” He struggled with whatever it was he was trying to convey, pointedly looking away from her when he finally found the words. “What exactly is going on between you and Clegane?”

Blood rushed to her cheeks and that swarm of butterflies stirred in her belly, and she felt caught. _We haven't even done anything_ , she tried to reason. _But I certainly wanted to_ , she reminded herself and instantly felt guilty. A lady shouldn't want such things. It wasn't proper.

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to, ser,” she tried, though she lowered her gaze to the floor. _'They're all liars and every one better than you.'_

“It… It seems that you're rather fond of the brute- Clegane. You're rather fond of Clegane,” he stumbled. “And I just want you to be safe. You're a lady, and I know what men like him can be like.”

“Do you?”

“My lady, like I said, I didn't mean to pry, but...”

“Speak plainly, ser,” she urged, finding her spine.

“I don't think it's wise to continue down whatever path you seem to find yourself on.”

“I think that's my decision, ser.”

“That's the thing, though. Remember, when we get you to your brother, it's to be expected that you'll be matched with another suitor. I just… I don't want...” His attentions shifted from her to one particular piece of straw, and she thought for a moment that he might not like this conversation as much as she didn't.

“I have no intentions of harming my chances, if _that's_ what you mean.”

“Good, then.” He nodded briefly at her, relieved it seemed to be settled now.

As they both went about their work, brushing the horses down and Edwyn taking care of the saddles, she found herself thinking about what her father had said to her all those years ago. How he'd find her someone brave and gentle and strong. How Sandor would have been a better choice than Joffrey. She would have shrieked at that- back when she was but a child; that big scary warrior always scowling. But now knowing that that big scary warrior was _brave and gentle and strong_ . Not for the first time, she found herself thinking, _I wonder if Father would have approved?_

She shook the thought away as they made their way back over to the inn, Edwyn shouldering the saddlebags and Sansa trying to keep her dress out of the mud. “I often wonder, though, you know, if life could be anything like those songs.” She looked over at the knight, his cheek yellowing now from the purple bruises. “If my father would have made a better choice. Maybe I could have been happy with someone like him.”

“Aye, maybe. But it's too late for that now. Maybe you should talk to your brother about it, when you see him.”

“Maybe I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine that if Sansa were in middle school, she'd be drawing little SS + SC = 4ever hearts all over it at this point....
> 
> Also, who's good at math and wants extra credit?  
> It's been bugging me that I can't get my head around how much Westerosi money is worth, so I finally made myself an Excel sheet comparing it to medieval money and its modern values, and what that would equate to in Westerosi currency. BUT- the values seem waaaaaay off. I'm confident in my research, but perhaps there's a typo somewhere? Maybe I'm translating things incorrectly? If you're up for some deciphering, here's a link to the file: [Here](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1MQTPLBTq8td02cU-zD127HETsgu6N8cIsNwROQcS9y8/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> A side note: I like [ this lady's ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2459303/chapters/7211486)breakdown of money's worth, but I don't like the article she links to where she found the figure of ~$53mil, because I don't see any citations of where that number came from. So I wanted to make my own....


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ A Map](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/c3/0b/51/c30b51f0ba4610769fd04c7dabb4f274.png)   
>  [A Picset](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/17/4b/65/174b65071143355b0b5031895ab135e5.jpg)
> 
> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!! :) <3

The one thing this shit hole had going for it was a fair bath house. It was a trek to the river, and Sansa insisted on trying to find some clean clothes along the way. ' _They don't just_ sell _clothes, Sansa. They have to be made.'_ Where did she _think_ they came from? And besides, nothing in this dismal place would suit a lady such as herself anyway. Would probably chip that porcelain skin with its coarseness.

Waiting for her was a dull affair. They'd take turns. Her first, then he'd take her back and Edwyn would watch her so he could bathe, then Edwyn would switch. It had been worked out in the dusty room, sitting on the edge of the _only fucking pallet_ in it. Always her first. _Keep her happy and safe and protected._

But seven hells, he wished she'd hurry up. How long did it take women to clean themselves anyway? He was twice her size and he took half the time… He picked at his thumbnail while he leaned against the bath house door, his other hand on the pommel of his sword and eyes scanning his surroundings like always. That damned smithy was staring over in their direction again, and he'd half a mind to punch him for it, but that would mean leaving her unattended. May hap later he'd have a word with him. _Keep your fucking eyes to yourself_. A snarl should do it. He spit on the ground and watched the storm clouds rush by, checking every few minutes whether he'd wisened up and gotten back to his work.

 

* * *

 

Roses and lavender and a thick rope of wet braided hair, and she was happy as one of those smiling clams they used to dig up from the river when they were children. It was good to be clean again, even if her dress was still damp from washing. It would have been nice to have a new one, but Sandor had said they weren't readily available, and if he said it, it was true.

She sat next to the brazier, rubbing her hands together for warmth and enjoying the delightful feeling of having her toes next to the fire. _Finally_ , she thought. It had been far too long with those shoes on, and far too long in the damp. The room may leave many things to be desired, but it was dry and warm and she could finally relax.

Sandor, too, evidently. He'd returned from his own trip to the bath house not too long ago, and had traded spots next to the door with Edwyn. Now he sat leaning up against it, too big for a chair, rubbing down his armor with a ball of steel shards and a stick of wax. He muttered under his breath some curse about the rust, and she couldn't help but laugh a little at him. Here they were safe and warm and soon to be fed, and he was still a black stormcloud over something trivial. Rust could be scraped away. Armor could be fixed. Contentedness, on the other hand, was few and far between nowadays.

“Why don't you come over by the fire and warm yourself up?” she offered to him over her shoulder.

He glanced up at her, the twist of his lips a mockery of her suggestion. “Aye, right, I'll just cozy right up next to it,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“You don't have to be so mean about it. I was just trying to be nice.”

“You're always trying to be nice,” he said to the steel, a film of wax now coating the pauldron he worked on.

“And you're always trying to be mean.”

“I don't have to try.”

“Are you a betting man, Sandor Clegane?” He looked up at her then, the use of his name snapping him away from his work. She had an idea.

“Where's this going, little bird?”

“Well, the innkeeper said that he'd send someone up to look at your leg soon. I'd set a wager that you _are_ capable of being nice to him when he gets here. Just to prove that you have to _try_ to be mean.” _And maybe you'll be a little less miserable after_ , she hoped.

“And what do I stand to win? This wager of yours.”

She crossed her arms, thinking. She hadn't money, and all of her belongings had burned with the village. She could sew him something. _Or a kiss,_ she thought devilishly. Her stomach flipped at the notion. _No, that would be much too forward._ She was still a lady, after all. “What's it worth to you?”

He thought for a moment, scraping at the wax with his fingernail. “A song, then.”

“A song?”

“Aye. I'd meant to ask you for one the night of the Blackwater. I'll have it now,” he said, settling the bargain.

“Only if you're nice.”

“Only if I'm nice,” he agreed.

 

* * *

 

She'd been watching him out of the corner of her eye the past hour, pretending not to notice that he was still in plain clothes, his armor sitting polished off in the corner of the room, his mail shirt over the headboard of the pallet. He was working at his sword now, sharpening the edge, and she watched what she could of his shoulders as they moved under the linen of his shirt; tried to push away the thought that she quite liked watching them. Quite liked watching _him_.

A rap at the door broke her reverie, and she turned her attention back to the brazier while he rose to answer it. “That'd be the maester, then,” she figured.

“Who is it?” he demanded to the door, awaiting an answer with his sword still in hand.

From the other side of the oaken door came the easy voice of a woman, seemingly not at all put off by the rasp of the man addressing her. “My name's Tabythe. I was told someone needed his leg seen to?”

“Never heard of a woman maester,” he said, a hand now on the bar of the door.

“Never heard of someone turning away a healer, either,” she countered. “Look, if you don't need me, I'll be on my way. I've other things to take care of than argue with a door.”

He looked to Sansa for just a moment and for an instant she wondered if he sought her opinion. _Well go on, let her in._

He pulled the bar up and the door creaked open, a rather voluptuous brunette standing on the opposite side. “Tabythe. Pleasure,” she said as she held out her hand expectantly, blue eyes drifting down to notice the tear in his breeches. “So you must be the one who needed the mending.”

Sandor stood blocking the door, and Sansa had to clear her throat to call him to attention. “Don't be rude, let her in,” she whispered to his back.

“Right,” he said, remembering himself and opening the door wider so she could enter.

_We'll see how nice he can be._ Tabythe strode in the room and surveyed Sansa. “Hello, sweet thing.”

She stood to curtsey, nodding over to the woman, her courtesies not forgotten. “Hello. Thank you for coming over. I did my best to stitch him up, but I'm not a maester...”

“Oh, neither am I child,” _I'm not a child,_ “but my father was a healer, and he passed on his knowledge to me.” She turned from her explanation over to Sandor, stooping to look at his leg, though the gash wasn't that much lower than her waist. “Alright, then, off with the breeches. No sense wasting any time.” She waved a finger to the screen on the other side of the room, indicating he should go strip down.

“Right fucking chance,” he snarled, and Sansa coughed. _Be nice_. He rolled his eyes at her over Tabythe's head. “Not with the girl in the room,” he settled.

“I can't tend to it properly if you've still got these things on,” she said matter-of-factly. “I'm sure it's not the first time she's seen it, my lord.” Sansa colored profusely at the insinuation.

“I'm not a lord. And it doesn't matter if she has or hasn't. Do what you will with them on,” he insisted. Though she was rather proud of him that he hadn't just thrown this woman out yet. Except for that slip, he was doing quite well on their wager.

“Oh, _sure she hasn't_ ,” Tabythe elbowed him conspiratorially, and Sansa wondered what she was getting at. _Does she think that we… we… oh, heavens!_ _She thinks that_ we _are…_ she couldn't even think the word. “Well, then, don't blame me when this thing festers again. If I can't see it, I can't mend it,” she tsked at him.

Sansa picked up one of the bed sheets and handed it to him, “Here. I won't look.” She had to bite her lip from the look he gave her, and her cheeks burned all over again. Something about it and the thought that not only was he not wearing that layer of armor she always saw him in, but now he might be in the same room with her with nothing but a sheet to cover him. And this time he would know that she was watching. Somehow it felt different than the other night in the inn. Like she wouldn't have to sneak looking at him this time, if she wanted to. _Gods,_ that look he gave her. It burned.

He grumbled something under his breath and disappeared behind the screen, only to appear moments later with his lower half wrapped in the sheet. “There, was that so bad?” Tabythe clucked as he tossed his breeches onto the pallet.

“Just hurry it up, then,” he sighed, resigned to the fact that he was now outnumbered by two women trying to free him of his clothes.

 

 

Sansa took the opportunity while the other woman worked to stitch up the hole in his breeches. Tabythe babbled as she worked, things about how to clean it and pack it with salt and herbs and which ones to use and how to care for it after, and Sansa realized halfway into her work that she was actually rather interested in what she was doing. Aside from the fact that Sandor's leg stuck out from under the sheet, and _seven heavens_ , it was muscled. That still-strange clench in her belly responded to the sight of his bare flesh, and several times she had to duck her head to hide ever persistent blushes.

Sandor looked bored with the whole thing, as if it was common place for this all to be happening. To have some woman working at a gash on your thigh with your leg exposed; a _maid_ in the room no less. But it wasn't as if she was in a hurry to finish stitching his breeches. _No need to hurry to get them back on._ She scorned herself as the thought popped up.

 

 

“So if I tell you what needs to be done to keep it from festering, will you take care of it?” she asked Sansa. “Something tells me he won't do it.” Sandor frowned behind her, his scars pulling into neat little tracks along the side of his face. She was right, though. He probably wouldn't.

“I can try,” she answered and handed Sandor's now finished mending back to him. This close, she could see more definition through the sheet, and oh, the fury of her cheeks when her eyes fell on the rumple of sheets betwixt his legs when he stood up. Tabythe smiled at her as he disappeared behind the screen.

“Don't let _that_ big cock go to waste, sweet thing,” she whispered as she nudged Sansa's shoulder, and she had to clasp her hand to her mouth to restrain the socked gasp that came out. _The boldness of this woman!_ “I'm only teasing,” she said to Sansa's raised eyebrows and flushed cheeks. “Have you not?...”

Sansa didn't even know her head had shaken until the woman pulled a pot out of her bag and placed it in her hand. It smelled sharply of cloves, and the milky cream inside had lavender buds stirred into it. “My sweet summer child. Use this, when you two,” she made a motion with her fingers that Sansa only faintly registered as a demonstration, “and it'll hurt less. Especially with _that_ , my dear.” She nodded over to the shadow moving behind the screen. “Now, for the wound,” she clapped her hands together as if she hadn't just brought up _the_ most embarrassing topic Sansa could think of.

Tabythe pulled potions out of her bag, setting them on the bed along with various herbs and sachets. “It'll need to be cleaned twice a day. Boil the water first. You did a lovely job stitching it up, dear, but it's easier to keep clean if it's left open. Bandages,” she said, setting a roll of linen on the bed, too. “Keep them clean, boil them in water to wash them. Now, for maintenance: once you've cleaned it, pack it with salt and place a few drops of this on the salt,” she handed her a vial of golden liquid. “Oils of calendula, yarrow, and thyme. If you run out, it's fairly common, so you should be able to find more.”

“And that should heal it?”

“Yes, that should do. Just be sure to keep it clean. Don't let him go getting it dirty. Looks like a man who isn't too preoccupied with that sort of thing.”

_Neither did I until we got into town._ It was the necessity of the road. If this woman had met him in Kings Landing, it would have been a different story. _Leather and_ _the very faint scent of the stables and the kind of soaps afforded by being part of the royal assembly._ Not that she'd paid any attention all the times he'd escorted her back to her room…

There was another knock at the door and Sandor popped out from behind the screen, tying the last of his laces up.

“It's me, open up,” mumbled the door, and from the mincing of the words, it was plainly Edwyn.

Sandor pulled the bar out again, letting the knight through. Tabythe had her things packed up and surveyed him on the way out of the room. “Aren't you a pretty thing?” she asked as she passed, pressing herself a little into him. “Wouldn't mind a roll in the hay with _you_.”

“Married, thank you,” Edwyn ground through his bruise.

“Well, if you change your mind, I'm sure you can find me.”

“Thank you, but I'll not make that mistake twice,” he grinned, a winced, half-curved thing. “I've still yet to live it down.”

“Hmm. Well, anyway. Shame about the jaw, though. Not much I can do for that,” she said as she passed through the door. “I've milk of the poppy if you'd like some.”

“No thank you. You've been kind,” he tried as he made to close the door.

She pursed her lips at him, disappointed, and peered over his shoulder at Sansa. “Don't forget what I told you. Don't let that cock go to waste!”

“Aaaand we're done,” Edwyn said, shutting the door on her. “Thank you,” he called though the door. “Rather colorful language, in front of the lady.”

“ _What did she tell you?”_ Sandor turned to Sansa, and _good gods,_ her cheeks were crimson again.

“Nothing, I… it was...” she fumbled.

He folded his arms over his chest, “Little bird, what did I tell you about liars?”

“That every one of them is better than me,” she said to the floor.

“Aye. So what did she say to you?”

“It's… I can't say.” And she really couldn't. There was no way that she would be able to repeat that. She looked up to see an eyebrow raised at her, the scars where his other one should have been twisted up to follow suit. And _how was it that linen could pull like that over his chest?_

“Well,” Edwyn interrupted. “Good news is that I was able to get word to Robb. We should be on the road within a day or two. From what I can tell from the locals, it seems the road should be pretty clear from here on out, though we should probably stock up while we're here. Seems the Riverlands were hit pretty hard recently. Your brother's men,” he said to Sandor.

“He's not my brother anymore.”

“He's nothing, anymore,” she added under her breath.

“Still. It _shouldn't_ be that difficult to get to the Twins now. We can probably stick to the Kingsroad without trouble.”

“Aye. Then we'll get what we need tomorrow and head out at dawn the next.”

 

* * *

 

The coals were but a faint glow of orange and the moonlight a sliver of silver over the rushes of the floor as she lay awake that night. The things Tabythe had said swimming around in her head, about what was implied the clove-scented paste was for. For when her maidenhead would be broken. The impending doom and yet the increasing anticipation of reaching the Twins. Of family reunions and happiness and then the utter truth that it wouldn't last.

Because now, even as she tried to reassure herself that Robb would be good and marry her off to someone sweet and kind, the pit in her stomach reminded her that whoever he chose wouldn't be the man on the floor next to her. It terrified her that the butterflies that swarmed in her stomach when she played back memories of him were turning into something substantial. Somehow, when she wasn't even paying attention, he'd turned from someone she could almost trust, someone who tried to help spare her some pain, into someone that was quite a bit more than that.

There was a war within her: a rush to want to be at the Twins, with her brother, and the desire to dig her heels in the mud and stay put. Stay here with him.

 

The men had pushed the bed across the barred door for added security, and now Edwyn lay against the wall under the only window, Sandor right next to her on the floor. Both seemed asleep, though she knew from experience that her non-knight probably wasn't. She rolled over onto her belly and rested her head at the edge of the pallet, letting her arm dip down to poke at his.

“Are you still awake?” she whispered, as quiet as a kitchen mouse.

He nodded, his eyes still closed.

“I can't sleep.”

“Count sheep, then,” he whispered back, an eye now squinting up at her.

“Can I come down there?”

“Why?”

She couldn't explain it, just… she felt safer next to him. She didn't have to think about what was going to happen to her, because he was there. “I don't know.”

Surprisingly, he pulled his blanket over, an arm spread out to the side for her. “Come on, then.”

She smiled and slid off the pallet, nestling into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was different from the tree when they'd found Stranger. The same feeling was there, one of being safe and protected here with him, but now she was covered under his blanket, his arm wrapped around her shoulder, and her heart swelled.

_I love you_.

_Where did that come from_? But it was true, wasn't it?

She nuzzled her head into the crook of his arm, laying hers over his stomach and pressing herself up to him.

“You still owe me a song.” She looked up to him, his head propped up with his other arm, looking down at her, and _gods, he's so close_ again. And here in the moonlight, in the summer-sun warmth of this feeling inside her, she found herself at a crossroads. She could stretch up and kiss those lips that had plagued her thoughts, or she could leave it be. Let them stay where they were, in this sometimes uncomfortable, oftentimes mutual companionship they'd fallen into.

“It seems I do,” she smiled. “What do you request?”

He pondered for a moment, his chest rumbling under her ears when he answered. “Florian and Jonquil?”

“I thought you hated songs about love and fair maidens.”

Edwyn stirred in his sleep, and they both snapped their attention over to him, holding their breath. “Maybe that one's not so bad,” he tried, his eyes still on the knight, trying to determine if he'd gone back to sleep.

“Are you talking about the song or the stray?”

“Mayhap both,” he said, turning back to her, satisfied that they weren't hosting an audience.

The fact that his arm was still curled around her and hers over him did not escape her.

“Sandor?”

“Little bird.”

“Would you take another form of payment for that wager?”

“I don't get a song?” he teased, and she stretched up, just a hair's breadth away from him now. “Little bird?” His voice was uncertain, and his eyes searched hers.

“You can still have your song. I'll sing it to you on the morrow.” Her hand sought his face, the scars mangled and bumpy beneath her palm. And she closed the last bit of distance, and it was everything and nothing at all like she'd imagined. His lips were an odd sort of mix between soft and angry, and it felt perfectly right to have them against hers, as he moved under her with a lazy sort of acceptance. But then she heard a groan deep in his throat and she pulled away, suddenly aware of what she'd just done, found now from the lost she was becoming in that kiss. _But gods,_ she'd wanted to do it, she thought as she buried her head into him again.

He didn't say anything, but as she lay against him, cocooned under the blanket and his wing, listening to his heartbeat, her thoughts calmed and sleep hung heavy over her. Just as she was drifting off, she felt him shift, turn to face her, wrap his other arm around her, push a strand of hair away from her face. Place a kiss to her forehead.

_And seven heavens, if that wasn't the deepest sleep she'd had_.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this chapter seems a little disconnected, just trying to move the story along. :)

In the slippery matutinal light, Sansa was still curled up into him, and his arm was still wrapped around her shoulder, her hair an auburn waterfall splashing against the rushes.

 

_'How long have you loved her?'_

 

_How the fuck did that even happen?_ Because the truth was that he did, and it had crept up on him when his defenses were down, all gentle touches and kind words and everyfuckingthing he craved. _Fucking nance,_ he scolded himself. But somehow, she seemed to fill all the holes everyone had left in him. She didn't even fucking know what she did to him, and she never could. _It can't last; it won't last_ , he thought, watching the drift of her hair as she puffed out gentle snores, her face that smashed sort of contortion she pretended didn't happen in slumber.

 

_And what the fuck was_ that _last night?_ Her mouth on his. First time a woman had ever done that. And he'd felt like a godsdamned green boy, trying to conceal the startle when she'd kissed him, tried to pretend like he even knew what the fuck he was doing. Surely, she'd assum e he did. He was seven years her senior, why wouldn't he? _Because you can't pay them enough for that kind of affection_. And who in the seven hells would willingly get that close to the rubble of his face, hmm? Except this little bird, delicate feathers and pretty songs and everything dogs weren't.

 

She cooed against him in her sleep, her hand that had so steadfastly stayed tucked under his side all night moving now, coming to rest on the flat of his chest, a leg raising to settle between his as she tried to get more comfortable, a nuzzle against his side.

 

_Godsdammit,_ this couldn't be.

 

Much to his chagrin, he needed to peel her off him. Before he got more attached than he already was, before she realized her hip was dangerously close to the fresh morning stiffness in his breeches. He concentrated on anything but her sleep-parted lips or the press of her tits up against him, staring intently on a spider making its web between the beams of the ceiling to make it go away.

 

“Sansa,” he whispered, shaking her shoulder not ungently. She stirred, long lashes fluttering against the rush of new light, lips smacking away torpor's cottonmouth. Gods, he wanted to kiss them again. _No. I can't._ He replayed last night's moment in his head. _Not unless she does it first._ “Wake up, little bird.”

 

Bleary eyes focused on him, and for a moment there was a flash of something akin to panic. An instant, only, but enough to set his mind. _Of course. Why wouldn't I still scare her?_ Waking up next to that ugly mug would alarm the hardiest whore, not that he would know. _Of course she didn't mean it. She regrets it._ He disentangled himself from her, leaving her coolly in the rushes to go kick the stray's boot.

 

“Wake up, Edwyn. We've shite to get done.”

 

* * *

 

_Detached_. If she had to sum him up in one word today, it would be detached. He wasn't _mean_ to her, per se, but there was a tepid indifference that morning that she wasn't entirely comfortable with. She'd woken up fairly alarmed that she'd managed to wrap herself up in his legs overnight, the sudden realization that it was precisely _that_ that Edwyn had told her not to do, and if he woke up and saw them… well, she'd have some explaining to do, and… it wasn't that it hadn't been innocent enough, perhaps it was the fact that she just wanted to keep whatever had happened between the two of them. If only just for now. So mayhap when his eyes had met hers and he'd registered her thoughts, leaving her alone on the floor and suddenly _freezing_ from the absence of his body, well… perhaps that wasn't so bad.

She replayed the kiss over and over in her head all morning, long after the men had left to tend to their errands, leaving her to occupy herself in the boarded-up room. She longed to go explore the town with them, get her bearings, see the river that carried the same water that flowed past her family at one point. But they'd insisted she stay there, and for wont of anything else to do, she ran and reran the daydreams in her mind: the kiss that was, the kisses she wanted, the touching she wanted, too. And gods, that ponderous feeling in her belly again. _What_ was _that?_ It seemed to crop up every time she thought of him now, and it was all she could do to will it away.

And then the thought of his skin, so barely veiled under her palm, or his naked leg sticking out from under the sheet, or touching those scars that had intrigued her for so long. She remembered wondering how they might feel when she'd just met him, those many years ago, and now she knew. At once hard and angry, but the skin so, so soft, like the petals of a rose. How strange! Such a man with skin as soft as a flower. But then there was the tickly rough scrape of his chin and that persistent stubble, and the contrast of his scars. Gods, how it had felt to have that against her face!

And watching him don his armor again, Edwyn a blur around the room as her focus was on the muscles moving under Sandor's tunic, trying to piece together what she had remembered from the inn near Kings Landing. When she'd spied on him. Even the memory colored her cheeks, and she berated herself for thinking on such things, but who would know? Who would be there to judge her that such unladylike thoughts ever entered her mind?

So she let them continue, well into the day until the peculiar throb between her legs was too much to bear and she forced herself to think on other things lest she implode.

 

* * *

 

First order of business was to get the horses shod, pick up some shoes for Stranger because he was too much of an arsehole for anyone else to do it. Stopping by the smithy would grant him the opportunity to have a word with that fucker that kept looking at Sansa. Let him know where he was welcome to stick his eyeballs if he kept at it.

Edwyn was off this morning. Maybe he'd been privy to what had happened last night, after all. Fuck all, it wasn't any of his business, and if he was going to have a stick up his arse about anything, he sure as hell wasn't going to play into it. He could fuck off for all he cared. He sure as seven hells wouldn't let some knight's opinion on what was proper and what was not dampen the memory of that woman's mouth on his. Fuck him.

But now that they stood in the smithy's shop, that black haired boy pounding away on the shoes they needed, he realized it wasn't the kiss Edwyn was bent out of shape over. It was the smith. Maybe he didn't like him looking at Sansa, either.

He'd intended to wait until Edwyn had wandered off with the horses to say something to him, but if the knight had a problem with the boy, too, there was no reason to wait. He drew in a breath to start on his diatribe, when the boy said something over his shoulder, nigh drowned out by the _pingpingping_ of hammer on steel.

“What?” Edwyn tried, and the boy stilled, blue eyes poking out from behind the ash smudges on his face.

“Ser, I only asked what brought you all through here.”

“Don't see why it's any of your business,” Sandor replied, and Edwyn shifted against the wall next to him.

“Apologies, ser. I just thought I recognized someone you were with,” the boy said sheepishly, returning to his work. Oh, bloody _great_. Just what they needed, to be found out in some shit hole of a town. For all they knew, this cunt was a spy for the crown, just waiting to collect on a bounty that was surely hovering over their heads.

“And why might you think that?” Edwyn inquired, his jaw mending more every day, getting to the point where he was almost intelligible.

The boy eyed them suspiciously, and _it's not us you've to be suspicious about_ , Sandor thought menacingly. _Who the fuck are_ you _to say anything?_ “The girl you're with, ser. I...” _Godsfuckingdammit,_ he was going to have to run this boy through before he even finished with the shoes. Damn shame.

“Go on,” Edwyn prompted.

“It's probably nothing.”

“Why do you recognize her? She's no one,” Sandor clarified, hoping that lie sounded decent enough aloud, even though it was the farthest from the truth. _'No one,'_ he scoffed. She was everything.

He stuck the shoe back in the forge, stalling for time. “I...”

“ _Out with it, boy_ ,” Sandor ground through his teeth. _I've about enough of this nancing around._

“I think I may have met her sister.”

Edwyn's face twisted incredulously, “What? How?”

The boy lowered his voice, though no one was about to necessitate the effort. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“Look, I've no intention to harm you, though my friend here may have other plans for you if you don't tell us what you know.” Sandor smirked, enjoying the look of fear on his face.

“I don't want any trouble, ser.”

“Gods dammit, boy, just spit it out,” Sandor grated, his patience wearing thin.

“I'm from the Capital,” he replied nervously, glancing only briefly at the twist of Sandor's scars as he scowled down at him. “I was headed North, to the wall, with a group of other men.”

“Doesn't explain how you supposedly know this girl's sister.”

“She was one of them, ser. Thought she was boy for a while. 'Til I pieced it together. She made me swear not to tell anyone.”

“Right job you're doing now, then,” he said, resting his palm nonchalantly on the hilt of his sword.

“This was years ago. I reckon she's gotten wherever she needed to get to by now. At least I hope so.”

Edwyn narrowed his eyes at the boy, “And why should you be so concerned?”

The boy looked affronted, “Why shouldn't I? She was decent person, and just a girl, at that. It's dangerous out there.”

Sandor cut in, more concerned with what he knew of the little bird. “And why might you think this girl has anything to do with this one you met before?”

“I remember her saying something about her sister. Hair red as flame, always a proper lady. How she'd never be able to pretend to be a boy like she was. Just don't see many women like that out here, is all.”

“And if she is? Then what is that to you?” Edwyn asked.

“I was just wondering if she'd heard anything of her sister, is all, ser.”

“Hmm, well. How about none of your fucking business?” Sandor spat.

“Clegane, this boy means us no harm, I'm sure it's all right,” Edwyn soothed, but the non-knight still bristled. “Arya is well. She is with her brother, the last I heard. Made it back safely once her wolf found her.”

What the fuck was going on? Who the fuck was this cunt? Why did Edwyn suddenly trust this boy so much to tell him that much? _Whatthebloodyhells?_

The boy seemed to be satisfied with the information, though, and shortly they were headed back to the stables with the horses, Sandor only barely containing the slew of questions he had for the knight.

“What was that all about, then?” He reeled on Edwyn as soon as he was sure no one else was in the stables.

“Clegane, I know you don't trust some of the things I do.”

“Right, well, that shouldn't come as a surprise, then.”

“That boy is Gendry Waters.”

“And? Why should you care about some bastard from the Capital?”

“Because he is Robert Baratheon's bastard from the Capital.”

 

_Fucking fantastic_.

 

* * *

 

“I'm sorry, but why exactly do you think it's a good idea to bring him along?” Sansa asked from behind the steaming bowl of potage on the table, gently blowing on a spoonful to cool it down, and _godsfuckingdammit_ , the way her mouth pursed into that tight little _O_ had him thinking of other things.

Edwyn leaned back in his chair, an elbow tucked over the back of it like they were lounging on a plush sofa instead of rickety rough-hewn chairs in a shit hole inn. “Because he's important in the long run, Sansa. I'm sure of it. And besides, a good blacksmith is never wont for work. We could use him.”

“Don't you think the people here would need him more? Isn't he their only smith?”

“I'm not so concerned about this place.”

“That's unkind, ser,” she reprimanded, sipping on the now-cool spoonful. “These people deserve just as much as any other.”

“Sansa, I hate to tell you, but as soon as the next big rain comes, this place is going to be flooded. It's already close to ruin, and a storm would wipe it down river.” Blunt, yes. But the knight was true. “Winter is coming, and we must do what we can before it does. If that means taking their only smith with us, then so be it. I know, it's harsh, but it's the truth.”

“Aye, little bird. He's the right of it. The way the rain's been coming down the past week, it's lucky this place was still here when we got to it.”

“And you agree with him?” She turned to him, blue eyes alight with something akin to a challenge.

“Better in the long run, as he says,” he settled, choking down a gulp of the steaming liquid in his bowl.

“So both of you agree that taking away a resource from these people is a good idea.”

Edwyn scrunched up one side of his face, “Well, when you phrase it like that…”

“Because that's what you're doing.”

“Sansa, he needs to come with us.”

“I just don't see why,” she cut, pursing her lips as she pushed herself away from the table. “If you'll excuse me, I'll be in the room.”

“What's gotten into her?” Sandor asked the knight as she retreated up the stairs, his eyes more on the way her skirt moved across her arse than they should be.

“Just the way she was raised, I suppose. Don't take from others when you have enough.”

“Aye, well, we're in the middle of a war, doesn't she realize that?”

“I don't think that's where her head is, right now.”

“Then where is it?”

“The welfare of these people. She just doesn't realize they won't last the winter. Can't do much for them.”

“And you're still keen on taking this boy with us, then?”

“Aye.”

Sandor took a swig of ale, crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, well, let's hope you're right then. That King Robb'll want him. One more mouth to feed and one more body to look after, if you ask me. We've already enough on our plate without having to babysit someone else.”

“We're not babysitting him, Clegane. I'm sure he can look after himself if he's made it this far from the Capital on his own.”

“And what of the girl? You were a bad enough addition, but we don't know this cunt. What if he's a rapist? Murderer? Why was he being shipped to the Wall, anyway?”

“For his own protection. I told you who he is. They were rounding up all the others and killing them. He's lucky that he got out when he did.”

“Aye, like you said. Still don't know why you'd be privy to that information, anyhow.”

“I was with Lord Stark when he tracked the boy down, I told you that.”

Sandor grunted into the horn of ale. “Aye, didn't say I believed you, though.”


	27. Chapter 27

She'd been staring out of the tiny excuse for a window for what seemed like hours. The moon had risen, casting its light while she traced the shadow of the keep, creeping across the muddy street. He still wasn't back yet. She figured he'd finish his dinner and head up afterward, but Edwyn had come up instead. He was now fast asleep against the wall opposite her, and she wondered how he always slept so soundly.

Her mind wandered in between his snores, to how far they'd gotten since they'd left King's Landing, how she still remembered what had brought her here. Or rather, who.

How he wasn't the man she'd met in Winterfell anymore. No longer the same man who'd enjoyed scaring her, intimidating her with his size and his scars. How under the granite outer layer of his gruffness, there was something deeper. What she used to think of those scars, gnarled and angry and horrible, and how they'd changed to her. Not angry; sad. Not gnarled; soft, in their own way. Not horrible for the sake of appearances, but for the literal horror of what he'd gone through to get them. Horrible for what they'd seeded inside him; a deep hate for his family, knighthood, everything a young boy should love.

She'd been surprised by him. ' _No one will hurt you or I'll kill them.'_ She seemed to remember him saying it. That much she believed to be true, but she'd always assumed it had something to do with being the King's shield, and she being the King's betrothed. But now they were neither, and still he protected her. Could she wish for it to have meant the same then, as it seemed to now? Could she even hope that he might feel some fraction of the warmth she felt for him?

She scooted down on her pallet, forgoing tracing shadows for pondering under the heated comfort of the wool blanket. She replayed their kiss again and again as sleep hung over her, each time changing it a little, imagining it lasting longer and longer, his hands elsewhere. He'd hold her, pull her close, brush her hair away so he could kiss her cheek, her jaw...

 

* * *

 

Long shadows and twisted faces. Emerald eyes glinting in dim lighting, a cackle, a sneer, a threat. Repeated offenses to her dignity and her honor, a final tip into her grave. _I told you I'd give you your brother's head on a plate._

 

A white cloak. Snickering green eyes replaced by moody grey ones. Golden hair inked over.

 

* * *

 

Pillows and soft linen bedclothes and piles of furs. She smiled contentedly as she rolled over in her sleep, adjusting to find another comfortable position. Her arm wrapped around the body next to her, and she nuzzled against it. Leather and the clean scent of fresh soap and just faintly of the stables. _Sandor_. Her lips pulled up again. She was safe. She was home.

 

* * *

 

A kiss on the lips, bright morning light through spring's mist. A kiss on the cheek, a scrape of stubble, an inhale as she was roused from slumber by the man next to her. Melting into his touch as his fingers whispered over her pulse, across her collarbone, down her shoulder and over her back, pulling her to him. A repaired thigh pressing between hers, pressing, pressing. Kisses down her jaw, her head tossed back in revelry, an opportunity taken, more kisses down her throat.

 

Calloused hands up bare skin, caressing, kneading.

 

Pressing, pressing, pressing.

 

“Sansa,” a whisper in her ear.

 

“Shh.” Finger to his lips, kissed upon contact. Feminine giggles and storm-dark rumbles.

 

“Little bird,” gentle, coaxing, louder.

 

“Shh, more kissing.”

 

“Sansa,” louder still. A bang at the door. Didn't her handmaiden know not to disturb them?

 

“Curse her, she can wait.” Devilish laughter, rolling on top of him to see those grey eyes properly.

 

“Sansa, wake up.”

 

“But I _am_ awake.”

 

“Open the door Sansa.” Another bang. “Bird, open the godsdamned door.”

 

And he faded away to grey, to black, to the pitch of the room as she opened her eyes and the dream faded away. Pressing, pressing, _gods_ , the throb between her legs was really starting to be distracting. One look over at Edwyn to see that he was no help; a sliver of moonlight across his face displaying that he was still out cold. _How is it possible he can sleep through that?_ She pulled at the remnants of her dream, holding the fragments and shards, kisses and touches and butterflies in her stomach when she remembered the other main character was on the other side of the door.

She tossed her blanket aside and tiptoed across the floor, rushes rustling under her feet. The bar was heavy, but she managed it, and a heavily ale-spiced giant was revealed when she opened the door. “Took you long enough.”

“You can sleep out there if you're going to be rude.” And she'd been having such a lovely dream about him, too. Clearly, that sweet Sandor only existed in her dreams, and not in the middle of the night after several horns of ale.

“Don't be- princess- let me in,” he struggled. She backed away from the door and he shuffled in, tossed the things he'd been holding on the pallet and barred the door behind him. She watched him silently as he stripped off his armor, judging him on the amount he'd had to drink even though she knew she shouldn't. It wasn't her place to do such a thing. Ladies shouldn't. But, damn it, and she scolded herself for thinking such words, she'd been having such a lovely dream. And now she had a mess of a sloshing hulk to deal with.

“You're up late,” she commented, only answered with the clatter of metal as he fumbled with his armor. Her mind wandered to the last time they'd been at an inn, why he'd been late coming back to their room. “Where'd you go?”

“Nowhere important.” He worked at the straps of the pauldron, drunk-numb fingers fumbling fruitlessly with the leather and steel. “ _Godsdammit_ ,” he swore under his breath.

“Here, let me help you,” she offered against her better judgment.

“I can do it just fine.” A drunk snarling dog. All bark and no bite. She stepped over to him, swatted his hand away, and he sunk down into the chair by the burned out brazier in defeat. She effortlessly unbuckled it for him, set it down on the floor, worked on the other. “Thank you,” he rumbled.

She smiled at the unprovoked politeness. “You're welcome.” She tugged up on his armor after she got the other pauldron and his vambrances off, and he held up his arms like a child being undressed. Gods, his armor was heavy. How did he carry that around all day? She'd wrestled his mail shirt up near his elbows by the time she realized he'd been staring at her the whole time. “What?” she giggled, assuming he was judging her ability of removing armor. “It's _heavy_ ,” by way of explanation.

She finished with the mail, set it on the floor next to the rest of his armor, studied his face in the darkness. He squinted at her, the deep canyons and smooth plateaus of his scars looking like the moon in its light. She set her hands on his shoulders, suddenly feeling too-familiar with him. Had it been the dream? Was that just the way of it now? His muscles tensed, relaxed under her skin, and now without the armor she could smell him, too. Clean. Had he been to the baths? Was that where he'd spent his time into the night? Still he stared, tracing her face, making her feel like something up for inspection. “ _What?”_ she prodded, wanting to go back to a few seconds ago when she'd laughed instead of realizing the look on his face was serious, introspective.

“You're beautiful,” a susurration, only. “You know that, don't you?”

She did, and she nodded. Everyone had told her that all her life. Not an original compliment, but coming from him…

He rested his hands on her hips, pulled her closer to him, between his knees. “You're too good for them. All of them. Kind. No one's so kind.” His eyes had drifted down to his thumbs, rubbing an arch over her bones.

She touched his cheek, pushed his hair away from his face, tried to calm her shaking nerves from this unforeseen intimacy. “Where's this coming from?”

“Just needed to say it, is all.”

“Are you alright, Sandor?”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth pulling up as he shook his head. “Just drunk. It's the ale.”

“Well, the ale, it seems, has made you a talker. What brought this on?”

He stood to walk across the room, kicking off his boots in the process, and she could still feel the imprint of his hands and the ice their vacancy left. “Innkeep had news of the Northern forces. Says the Boltons are on their way down with more men. They must've come to some agreement with your brother.”

She returned to her now-cold pallet, pulling the blanket up to her chin. “Isn't that a good thing? If they haven't already been a part of the war, I'm sure Robb could use more men.”

“Can always use more men. But alliances come with a price, little bird. Roose isn't so fond of joining up with causes if he doesn't have something to gain from it.” He circled back around to Edwyn, leaning over him. “I swear to the gods this man could sleep through anything. Have you noticed that?”

She hummed her confirmation. “What do you mean a price?”

“I don't know, little bird,” he said, circling down onto the floor like a dog making its bed. “But it can't be good. Everyone knows Roose never does anything out of the goodness of his heart.”

She remembered hearing about Bolton's unsuccessful marriages. How his only heir was a bastard, and that was shaky at best. Not as valuable trueborn heir. And she constantly remembered the likelihood of Robb marrying her off once they reached the Twins. But surely, he wouldn't? He didn't even know they were on their way to him. Did he? Edwyn had said he'd managed to get word to Robb. _Oh, gods._

She didn't want to think about it. Nothing good ever came from word of the Dreadfort, with their sigil proudly displaying their antics. She couldn't. Robb wouldn't. She tried to comfort herself; _surely he wouldn't_.

Sandor lay on the floor next to her, trying to get himself settled among the rushes, and it was there she wanted to stay. Curled up next to him. Nothing bad ever happened under his arms. She was protected. And so she slid off the pallet, dragged her blanket with her and tucked herself up against him.

“Princesses shouldn't sleep on the floor, little bird.”

“I don't mind.” He'd been honest with her, even if the ale was the one doing the talking and not the man… “I like it here… with you. I'm safe here.”

His chest rumbled under her ear, heartbeat slow and steady in the haze of his alcohol's relaxation. “Aye, you're safe here. No one will hurt you, little bird.”

“Will you stay?”

“I told you I would.”

“No, when we get back to the Twins. Will you stay? I know you haven't talked about what you were going to do, and you have your Keep, if you wanted it.”

“I don't.”

“But I'd like you to stay.”

“Aye, mayhap I will,” he said, nuzzling into her hair as sleep faded his sentence. “Sansa?”

“Hmm?” She wrapped her arm around him, recreating how they'd been the other night.

“Last night…”

She hummed contentedly, thinking again about how his lips had felt on hers.

“Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to. I…” Should she say it? Would that make her some wanton harlot? “I liked it.”

“I can't tell if you're lying after this much ale.”

“I'm not.”

“Mmhmm,” he murmured into her hair, and she thought about replying, trying to come up with something along the lines of _I'd like to do it again_ , but failing. But his breathing deepened and the arm wrapped around her shoulder loosened its grasp as he fell asleep, and she missed her chance. _I'd like to do it again_. And she fell asleep, too, for the second time that night, to dreams of his lips on hers, postponing morning's realizations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how some people are angry drunks, and some are sappy drunks? I think we know which one Sandor is.... ;)


	28. Chapter 28

Sometime in the early hours before dawn, Sandor woke to the stray shaking his shoulder. “Sandor,” he whispered, taking in the sleeping form of the woman next to him. “I need to get some things done before we head out. I'll be back after sunrise.”

He blinked wearily up at the knight, one eye scrunched shut and the other trying to focus in the still-dark of the room. He grunted his acknowledgment, desperately wanting him to go away so he could go back to sleep and delay the pounding in his head that light would bring.

“Will you bar the door after I leave?”

Grunt.

He listened to the stray's bootsteps across the wooden slats, willing himself to get up for the door, to leave her. She'd rolled herself up in the blanket and curled over on her side by the time he got back. _Princesses shouldn't sleep on floors,_ he thought as he picked her up, placed her on the pallet. How'd they keep ending up like this? Sleeping together, and yet not. He shook it off in his still half-asleep, still half-drunk state, and went to settle back onto the floor.

“Don't go,” she called after him, voice groggy in the black. She moved over on the pallet, reached out to him. “I'll miss you.”

_Fucking hells._

 

* * *

 

No fire, and yet he could see her. Maybe it was the moonlight, bursting in through the snow-etched windows like some summer sun. May hap it was just his imagination, filling in the blanks, playing back memories of her skin. Or maybe it was the echoes of her sighs that traced her curves in the dark, bouncing off his fingers as they skimmed over her. _Little bird._

 

* * *

 

She bit her lip as she studied him, one arm propping her up and the other tucking her hair behind her ear. To no avail, mind, as the auburn strands came tumbling right back down. She had a tendency to do that, when she was concentrating on something. Bite her lip, mess with her hair. She thought no one watched her, but he did. He always did.

 

“Good morning,” she cooed, and by the look on her face, it was going to be a _good_ morning.

 

“Aye, little bird,” he grinned, giddy as some green boy when she didn't swat his hand away from her arse. “I think it might be.”

 

She leaned down to kiss him, chaste for such that she was implying. He ran his hand up to her hip, back down, pulled her to him in a fit of her giggles. Her leg slid over his, he nipped her neck. More laughter, that glow in winter's depths. “Sandor!” she chided, smacking at his chest.

 

He could only manage mumbles in replies, his mouth otherwise occupied with trailing kisses up behind her ear. “Sandor,” giggles. “Stop, your sword's poking me.”

 

“Nonsense,” he grumbled, pulling her earlobe between his teeth. “I don't sleep with my sword on.”

 

“Well, it's poking me nonetheless.” She shoved at his shoulder, nuzzled up to his neck when he fell against the pallet.

 

The pallet.

 

_Shit._

 

He shot up next to her, still covered in the blanket they shared even though he knew he should leave. Had that all been in his head? He adjusted himself, tucked away; fucking morning and that dream, and _oh gods_ , he hoped it had just been a dream. Last night came flooding back to him, not so much in memories as the put-off swell of too much ale and the pounding head ache the next day always brought with it. He blinked at the morning sun through the frosted glass of the window. He should get up.

 

But her hand crept across his arm, pulling at it, dragging him back down to her where she lay with her halo of hair scattered around her. That neck he'd kissed in his dream, ivory in the morning light, no marks from stubble's agitation apparent on her delicate skin. _Thank the gods_.

 

“Come back, please,” she mumbled into the blanket, never forgetting her courtesies even at this hour. “Come back, Sandor, I was warm.”

 

“I should be getting up. _We_ should be getting up,” he pointed out, studying the window to gauge the time. The stray would probably be pacing in the stables by now. _Oh, fuck the stray. He can wait_.

 

She cooed when he slid back down behind her, a spoon to her curve, something so fleetingly intimate about these moments they found themselves in. It wouldn't last. But fucking dammit, he felt whole next to her. Here in this shitty inn, a creaking pallet he didn't even fit on, tangled up with a princess he had no right to even touch. Here, he felt whole.

 

“What were you dreaming about?” she asked, pulling at his hand when he slid his arm under her neck, running her thumb along his palm. “Seemed like you were enjoying it.”

 

“Nothing,” he mumbled to her hair, hoping it might cover one of his few lies.

 

“You said my name.” She spun around in his arms, picked up the tie of his tunic and twisted it around her finger.

 

 _Shit_. “Did I? I don't think I did. You must have been hearing things,” he tried to cover. His head was throbbing by now, and all he wanted to do was go back to that dream. Mostly to shut his eyes, even though hers were staring back at him, expecting an answer. Refractions under water, tidepools and salt and things not of the north. Ice if she was angry, but right now they were thawed.

 

“Was it a good dream?”

 

Her skin under his lips, bare skin, _bare skin_. “Aye, it was.”

 

“Will you tell me about it?”

 

The curve of her hip, so soft, lips kissing him back. “May hap some day.”

 

“Please?”

 

“Shh, little bird, go back to sleep.”

 

She nuzzled into the valley his chest formed, arms folded in to tug on the ties. “I like it when you call me that.” He could feel her smile, press into him.

 

“Shh,” he tried.

 

“Sandor?”

 

He wasn't going to get any more sleep, was he? “Yes, bird.”

 

“Do you remember anything from last night?” He felt her look up at him, pull at the ties.

 

“Not much. Remember the Boltons.”

 

“Oh. Yes, them too. But...” He could feel her eyes boring into him, so he met them. “Well, you fell asleep before I could say the last thing I was going to say.”

 

What had she said? What had they been talking about? He remembered her coming down to sleep with him on the floor again. She'd asked about the Keep, hadn't she? _No, about staying_ . _She'd asked me to stay_. Mayhap not in so many words.

 

“You asked me why I kissed you.” Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of scarlet with that. “And I told you and then you fell asleep. You said you couldn't tell if I was lying because of the ale.”

 

He smirked; he remembered that. Little liar. Worst one in the capital, he used to tell her.

 

“Can you tell if I'm lying, now?”

 

He pushed himself back from her, regarded her. Her face was easy, searching his. “Aye. I reckon I could.”

 

“Well then…” she trailed, now caught in the spiderweb she wandered into. The way she squirmed reminded him of how she used to around him. When he would scare her for the fun of it. Because he could. It didn't feel right anymore.

 

“Out with it, little bird.”

 

She wouldn't meet his eyes, fiddled with the damned ties. He reached up a hand to run down her hair; didn't quite pull it, but she looked up at him nonetheless. “Little bird.”

 

“That I liked it. That I wouldn't mind doing it again.”

 

He searched her face; she had a nervous twitch she got when she lied, just under her left eye. He'd have told her about it by now, but what was the point? She'd learn to school it and then he'd have to find another tell. But her features were calm, her eyes wide and heart racing beneath her dress from her confession, but… she wasn't lying. _Silly girl_ . Silly girl with her head in the clouds and dreaming about knights and fair maidens. _Naive girl._ And how could she be so cruel? Stringing a dog on like that? Didn't she know not to toy with people? Or was that just what women did? If she'd spent any time at all around Cersei, _she'd know_. That's what women do, they-

 

“Sandor. I _said_ I'd like to do it again.” Tug on the ties. His eyes back on hers. When had her hand crept up? “Unless you don't want to.” She searched his face, didn't find what she was looking for, pulled away. “I'm sorry, I-- I thought...” She stammered, scooching across the bed as if there was any room for her to go.

 

“Bird,” he tried, reaching after her, but she pulled the blankets around her like armor. _Shit_ , he'd done it, now. “I-- What the hells does that even mean?” His head was pounding. Too early to decipher a woman's intentions.

 

“Nevermind. I'm sorry, I thought you… It's-- I--”

 

 _Seven hells_ , what had he gotten himself into? He pulled at her shoulder, rolled her back over from the ball she'd formed curled into the blanket. “Tell me what you mean, girl.”

 

“I want you to kiss me again.”

 

“We can't, Sansa.”

 

“Oh,” her face fell. “You don't want to?”

 

“Oh,” he laughed, “believe me, I do. But we can't, Sansa. Your brother'll have you betrothed the second you cross those gates, and I'm not going to be responsible for ruining your honor.”

 

“My honor!” She sat up, indignant. _Gods, this again_. “It's just a kiss, Sandor!”

 

Right, that did it. Up he went, leaving her alone in the bed, collecting his armor. “It's not, Sansa.”

 

“ _What_ is your _problem?”_ She huddled on the bed as he donned his armor, knees up and arms wrapped around them to make herself look small. “It's just a _kiss_.”

 

 _Finally_ , the last strap in place, record time for getting all this metal fixed onto him, and he was one hand on the bar of the door and the other on his sword belt as he turned to her. Her hair a mess from sleep and still bleary-eyed in the morning sun, a shoulder bared from her slipped dress and cheeks still flush from her impromptu anger, and _gods_ , he could fuck her right then and there.

 

“It's just a kiss,” she repeated, she whispered.

 

“It's not to me,” he glared, slamming the door behind him.

 

“Who sleeps with a sword, anyway?” he heard her call after him. _Fuck._


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I was looking at my Sandor Pinterest board, and I had too much hot guy on my brain not to write this chapter.
> 
> You can thank [him](https://www.instagram.com/kronometrillo/) for this. :)

* * *

Sansa replayed the happenings that morning in the still fizzled air after he left; waking up so utterly wrapped around him, so comfortable she never wanted to leave. _If only he hadn't slept with his sword_ , she thought, bitterly. Though, the increasingly present throb beneath her smallclothes begged to differ, as if there was something pre-determined in her brain meant to recognize it.

But… hadn't he grabbed his scabbard on the way out of the door? She remembered helping to take it off the night before…

_Oh, gods_ , she realized, with a sink and jitter of her stomach.

_Oh, gods,_ was all she could think as she threw the blanket off her and fumbled with her boots, as she ran after him down the hall.

_'It's not to me_ ,' he'd said. Then what was it to him?

“Sandor!” she called, catching up to him just as he dipped below the top of the stairs. “What does that even _mean_?” She pulled at his pauldron, spinning him around easier than she should have been able to. “' _It's not to me?'”_

“ _What?”_ he puffed, a squint of his eyes and a toss of his hand to the side. “What do you expect me to do, Sansa?” Just the faintest raising of his voice.

“I… I don't know. What do you mean it's not just a kiss to you?”

“Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be around you?” he exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face.

She fisted her hand at her waist, indignant. “Excuse you?”

“Do you have any idea how much will-power it takes not to push you against a wall and kiss the fucking shit out of you? Every. _Fucking_. Day.”

Her eyes widened, she hadn't expected that.

“How- _godsdam_ _m_ _it_ \- how much you're in my head?”

“What makes you think I don't want that? What makes you think _I_ don't think about _you_?”

“Because I'm a _dog_ , Sansa. Or have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten that I'm a killer, the King's dog, on the King's leash-”

“You're not those things,” she interrupted, she countered, trying to keep her voice calm though his threatened to break at this point. Then she held up a finger, remanding her statement, “Alright, you're one of those things. But you're not a dog, and I wish you'd stop saying that. You're your own man now, you're not on Joffrey's leash. And neither am I. And, pardon my language, but godsdammit, I want to kiss the fucking shit out of you, too.” Her heart was pounding like the sept bells in the capital, high on her use of his words and all this admission. “And I love you,” she added, the whipped cream on top of all that lemon cake.

“It's bad manners to say that with a mouth full of lies,” he scowled, a shudder and loom as he stepped back up the stairs toward her, herding her back down the hall.

She allowed herself back, because it wasn't a threat there in that hallway. He meant it to be, surely, meant to intimidate her, to get her to break, to cave and say that she hadn't meant it. But she did. _Seven heavens,_ she did. “I'm not lying, Sandor.”

“I know, little bird,” he growled, pushing her against the jamb of their door, corralling her there, a cage of his arms at the sides of her head. “The bird has some talons on her,” he smirked, and she thought about eating that grin right off his face, about grabbing his chin and pulling him down to her. Where had all this determination come from?

But she hadn't the time to dwell on it, because before she knew it, one of his hands had fallen to her waist and the other cupped the base of her skull, his thumb tracing the underside of her jaw to get her to look up at him properly. “Say that again, little bird.”

“Say what?” she whispered, there in the crackling pop of air between them.

“What you want me to do.” His eyes searched her face, lips to eyes to forehead and all back down again, and she reached up to hook her hand into the collar of his armor, pull him down.

“I want you to kiss the fucking shit out of me.” Her cheeks reddened with the vulgarity, or maybe it was the way his eyes were burning into her, or maybe it was the realization that that throb was because of him. And when his lips met hers again, it wasn't the lazy acceptance as before. It was waves crashing on cliffs, and the spark of flint and the roar or wildfire. It was hot and heady and delicious, so when his tongue slid along her bottom lip, when she let him in, she barely had time to think about propriety and _gods, is this what the other women do?_ They explored each other and the _thrumthrumthrum_ of her heart echoed under his skin, under where her fingertips grazed his throat. She nipped at his lip, his scars feeling odd between her teeth, but the growl that rumbled from him feeling just particularly _right_.

“ _Gods, Sandor_ ,” she managed as he moved down her cheek, sucked at her neck, that hand behind her head trailing down to knead at her breast and the other pinning her hip to the wall. She was completely surrounded by him and it felt divine; starbursts and explosions and burning up like the sun.

“ _Fuck me,_ Sansa,” he drawled, a moment to surface for air before he dove back down. And there, with his head bent to his task, she could just kiss that bit of flesh between his armor and his jaw, could thread her hand up through his hair and run her nails along his scalp. And when he groaned again, it reverberated across her flesh, loosed one of her own from the depths of her belly.

He pressed into her, pulled his hands up her sides until he hooked under her arms, hoisted her up the wall with his forearm under her arse. “I love you,” she whispered against his scars, where his other ear should have been. “I love you, Sandor.”

She was only met with a low rumbling growl, the slow clatter of thunder in the distance, such was his mouth otherwise occupied to answer as he pressed, open-mouthed south of her collarbone. She reached around the door jamb, searching for the handle to the door, desperately wondering what would happen if they entered the room. But _oh, gods,_ she wanted to.

“Don't think that's a good idea.” His voice was husky, eyes darker than she'd ever seen them. He punctuated his reasoning with kisses, holding her up with a press of his body and capturing her wandering hand with his own. “If we go in there, I _will_ fuck you… If you...” He seemed suddenly unsure, pulling back to search her eyes, “Only if you wanted to.”

She could hear people moving about downstairs and the brief interlude shook her thoughts back to her, tumbling one after the other at rapid speed as she remembered what they were doing and where. “Best not,” she frowned, rubbing the back of his neck with her free hand. Footsteps were approaching the stairs, getting closer, voices arguing between themselves. “Lest we be caught.”

He begrudgingly slid her back down, brushed a strand of hair from her face. He looked sad, rejected even, and she wanted to scoop him back up and tell him _it's not you, it's my damned honor_ , but she couldn't. The footsteps were coming up the stairs now, and she cursed the stray for interrupting them once again.

But instead of the mop of dark brown hair that belonged to the ser, what crested the stairs was entirely different. Sandor placed a kiss on her forehead and had just started to pull away when she saw the most decidedly unladylike woman clank her way up the final stair. There was an instant of silence as their eyes met, as the blonde woman's slid over to Sandor, down to where their hands still held together. It popped and rattled and shook in the space of time it took for the second pair of footsteps to catch up, and the woman broke her gaze when her companion bumped into her at the top of the stairs.

Her heart stopped. His hand clenched around hers.

“Well if it isn't the King's Hound! And his betrothed,” the golden-haired man smiled from behind the woman, his handsome face smudged from dirt from the road. “Brienne, have you met the Hound?” He nodded up to his companion, the lady knight staring at them like this was news to her. And then his eyes settled back on the two of them, glinting like two scheming emeralds there in the dim light of the grungy old hall.

Sansa instinctively jerked her hand away, pulled her hair over her shoulder in remembrance of his stubble on her skin.

“Jaime fucking Lannister,” the Hound snarled.

_Oh, gods._

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, lordy, I wonder how long they're gonna make it before what little bit of their will-power remains?
> 
> Bits inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6Oo_Syx1to). WARNING: NSFW


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Pic/gifset :) ](http://its-meggowaffle.tumblr.com/post/142788933015/chapter-30-the-great-escape-lets-pretend-that)

Edwyn crossed the dingy dining room of the inn with a smack of the front door behind him, oddly excited to present the efforts of his early morning errands to the two of them. He adjusted the bowstrings over his shoulder, quickly thinking about how tasty the quail would be, looped together on a string in his left hand. The potage here was acceptable, but some meat would be welcome, surely. And the bows shot true, which was almost a miracle in itself. Finding a bowyer and fletcher in this good-for-nothing town had been almost impossible, but he'd managed. And without them even expecting a thing.

Certainly, a man such as Clegane would appreciate the knight making good on his offer to teach him to arch. A man such as himself. Honorable and trustworthy. Maybe Sansa wouldn't have been so bad off with him. But still, he'd no holdings, really, judging by the look of contempt every time the Keep was mentioned. He wouldn't take it.

And Clegane was excellent with a sword, but he needed quite a bit of work with a bow. He'd taught his sons to shoot arrows; shouldn't be too much more difficult to do the same with him. But then again, he could be quite the prideful bastard. Might not be the easiest task to convince him to accept a lesson.

He climbed the stairs two at a time, rushing, almost, to get back to the room before they were awake so he could present the bow. But halfway up, it wasn't an empty hall that greeted him, but the backs of two people blocking the way. A knight almost as big as their companion, and an emaciated cripple, judging by the stump of an arm that hung to his right.

“Excuse me,” he tried, reaching the top of the stairs.

“Oh, pardon,” the knight responded, and it wasn't the voice of the man he expected to fill the suit, but the lilting of a woman. She moved aside to let him pass, but her partner?-- prisoner?-- couldn't possibly be a squire with the state of him-- turned around to likely tell him to bugger off.

“Jaime fucking Lannister,” Edwyn breathed, taking in the sight of the once-golden knight in shining armor, now so clearly fallen from the ranks. He rarely swore, but there was a certain hatred instilled in him from this particular knight, and the phantom pain started up in his leg again at the memory of their last meeting. Not that the Kingslayer would share the same sentiment. “How the mighty have fallen,” he sniggered, relishing the fact that the man's prized sword hand was now missing.

“I'm sorry, have we met?” Lannister furrowed his brow, studying Edwyn's face for any sign of recognition. The woman behind him looked completely lost, and by the looks of her, she might have been. She wasn't the type of blonde the Kingslayer normally went for, that was for sure.

“No, I've...” he stalled. “I've just heard about you. Hard to mistake you Lannisters.”

Jamie hummed, smirking the same irritating way his son did. “Even with all the mud?” he asked with a sweep of his hand, challenging the poorly-concealed lie. They needed to leave. He peered around the knights, over to Sansa and Clegane, who stood cornered at the other end of the hall.

“Ready to go?” he called over, hoping they might catch the hint.

“You're with _them?_ ” the woman asked, clearly trying to piece together what was going on.

“Yes,” Edwyn hurriedly assembled the lie he was working on. Hadn't Robb said that he'd released the Kingslayer in exchange for Sansa? Stupid idea, really, but maybe… “I'm escorting them to the Twins.” Everyone stared pointedly at him, and he met Sansa's eyes. “Were you not aware of the deal?”

The woman piped up, “Yes, but it was my understanding that I was to escort Lady Sansa back once I reached King's Landing with Jaim-- the Kingslayer.”

“Well, plan's changed,” he widened his eyes just slightly at Sansa, hoping that she would pick up that she needed to contribute to the conversation.

“Aye,” Clegane offered instead. “We're both escorting her. Not that it's any of your fucking business,” he spat at Lannister. Seemed the feeling was mutual.

The mismatched blondes looked from one end of the hall to the other, evaluating the interaction. Edwyn cleared his throat, _gods, he wasn't good at this._ “Right, King Joffrey doesn't trust a Northman to do it alone, and King Robb doesn't trust the Hound here to, either. So it's the both of us.”

“All that, just for a girl?” Lannister laughed, and the woman's face behind him fell.

“She's _Sansa Stark_ , she's not just a girl. And her mother entrusted _me_ with her safekeeping,” she swatted the ball of his shoulder. “Ser, I am Brienne of Tarth, and I promised Lady Catelyn that I would assure her daughters safety--”

“That won't be needed, thank you.” He could see Clegane lean down to say something to Sansa, and she disappeared off into the room they'd all been sharing.

“And who, exactly, are _you_?”

“The one _King_ _Robb_ trusted to escort her,” he glared. “So if you'll excuse us...” Sansa popped back out of the room, her hands full of the remnants of the things they needed to pack onto the horses. Clegane took an article, shook it out, spread a cloak over her shoulders. The action was not lost on him. “If you'll excuse us, we're to get back on the road.”

Clegane and Sansa made to move past them and Brienne reached out a hand to Sansa's shoulder. “My lady, if you please--”

Sansa looked up at her, down at her hand.

“Lady Sansa, if you feel unsafe with these men, I--”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you for your concern,” she smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Still, ever the lady. “I wish you and Ser Jaime safe travels.”

Brienne clenched her shoulder again, stared her down. “My Lady, I insist. Ser Jaime and I--” she checked the expression of her companion, “would be happy to escort you back to the Twins. Your mother charged me with your protection once I delivered Ser Jaime back to the capital.”

“Lady Brienne, truly,” she peeled the woman's hand off her shoulder. “I am fine. Thank you. I will pass along to my mother your offer for your services.” She looked markedly at the Kingslayer, drawing assumptions from his appearance. “But it looks like you might already have your hands full. These men have kept me safe thus far. I am sure they will continue to do so. Again,” there was that courteous smile, that same one her mother had, “thank you for your offer. And safe travels.”

“Lady Sansa--”

“She said _fuck off_ ,” Clegane spat, ushering Sansa down the stairs.

Sansa widened her eyes at Edwyn, _move, move_ , she seemed to compel.

“I'm surprised the King would send his prized shield for such a task as this,” Lannister called after them once they hit the bottom of the stairs. “Seems like such a menial task.”

“ _Fuck the king_ ,” Clegane ground under his breath, a step behind Sansa, a step behind Edwyn.

“He might hear you,” Edwyn implored, hissed over his shoulder.

“I'm sure he'll be glad to hear you're safe out here on the Kingsroad with the Hound and a Northman,” the Kingslayer added, and it seemed only the muddy streets prevented their feet from making too hasty of a retreat.

 

\----

 

“ _Look_ , we don't have _time_ for you to be nancing about,” Sandor ground, _this close_ to losing the rest of his temper. It was a good thing he wasn't like his brother, or else the smith would have already lost his head for the fuss he was putting on. “You either pack up your shite _right now,_ or you'll stay here and your precious little Stark girl will be none the wiser to your existence. Is that what you want? Because you sure seemed concerned about her yesterday.”

“I'm just saying that this is _my shop_ , ser, and I can't just _leave_ it,” the boy's blue eyes flashed, obviously confused what all the rush was about. Frankly, this decision had come out of nowhere for the most part; not like he could have prepared. But for shit's sake, time was of the essence.

“You can, and you will,” the bigger man said, touching the pommel of his sword for emphasis. _Unless you haven't a head on your shoulders_.

“I've been serving men all my life, ser--”

“I'm not a _ser!”_ he reiterated, tired for constantly correcting. _Tired of this fucking shit hole town._ They should be on the road by now, long gone before Jaime _fucking_ Lannister had a chance to rat them out. Couldn't exactly kill him right there in the hall, could he? That would have drawn too much attention. Plus, that ugly bitch didn't look entirely incapable with a sword.

“--and I'm sick of it. I need to be my own man, and I have my own shop here. I have that here.”

“Gendry,” Sansa tried. “It _is_ Gendry, isn't it? I don't think you realize. We need to leave _right now_. So if you're even remotely interested in seeing Arya again, I would suggest you pack up. And quickly.”

“And what's with all the hurry? I don't need to be getting into any trouble. I don't want that--”

Edwyn rubbed his temples, frustrated. “Son, look, we've told you, King Robb would be more than happy to have you in his service. You're good with a forge, and I've seen that bull helmet of yours. You're a good smith. He'll take you on, of that you have my word. Now, if serving some other Lord, or King, or whatever it is that bothers you, is really such an issue, I'm sure we can work something else out.”

“But why _me?_ Why is it so important to you that it's _me_ that you're dragging along into whatever mess you're in? I saw those two people walk into the inn,” he nodded over at the Bicephalian. “And then you were all scrambling out of there. Who were those people?”

“That's not the point right now, just pack your things, and we'll be on our way,” Sansa soothed, though it didn't seem to work. The smith still hemmed and hawed, and Sandor had had enough.

“Gods, enough of this shite,” he groaned with a roll of his eyes. The pommel of his sword did just the trick to knock the smith out, one tap to the skull and he slumped back, Edwyn scrambling to catch him.

“What'd you do that for?” he exclaimed, hefting the bastard up as best he could.

“No more complaining.” Sandor made to toss him over his shoulder and stalked out of the smithy with the bird and the stray in tow. “And now we can be on our way.”

“And how do you expect to explain this to the next passerby? What if they're watching?” Sansa fluttered, half-skipping to keep up.

“Then I suggest we hurry the fuck up.”

Stranger whinnied excitedly in his stall when he saw his master, the smith slumped over his shoulder. “No, no fight today, old boy,” he said as he passed him in favor of Sansa's mare, flopping the boy over the back of her.

“You can't just _do_ that,” the bird chirped behind him. “You can't just knock someone out because they're not cooperating.”

“No? I just did, princess.”

“Don't do that,” she pouted. Edwyn arrived behind her, started helping to tie Gendry to the horse so he wouldn't fall off.

“Do _what?_ ” he asked, moved back over to his own horse and busied himself with loading Stranger while the stray dealt with the other one.

She followed him over to Stranger's stall, leaned on the frame of the door with her arms crossed over her chest. Gods, she didn't know what that did to her tits. _She probably does_ , he thought, the memory of how they'd pressed against him that morning flashing back momentarily. “Be mean. Don't be mean to me, after...” She looked over to Edwyn, still preoccupied with Gendry. “After this morning,” she whispered.

“Bird, you forget that that's who I am. Or do I have to keep reminding you?” He pulled the last strap tight on Stranger's saddlebags, checked his bridle one last time. “Now up you go.”

“You can be such a-” _arsehole?_ He dared her to say it. “Such a hateful person sometimes.”

“Aye, I suppose I can” he said, lifting her up into the saddle and swinging up behind her. His hands at her waist, she still huffed at him. He gave her a little poke at her sides, and she squealed, slapped his knee next to her thigh.

“Everything alright over there?” Edwyn called from the other stall, leading his horse over to tie the mare to.

“Yes, yes. We're fine,” Sansa said through her ill-quieted giggles. “Stop it, you'll get us caught,” she whispered, turning around to glare up at Sandor, evidently her ire about the bastard temporarily forgotten.

“Wouldn't want that,” he growled back, voice husky as she leaned back and inadvertently afforded him an excellent view down the neckline of her dress before she pulled her cloak closed over it. He leaned down to kiss her again, an arm around her belly to pull her to him.

She kissed him back, hummed in the back of her throat, and _fuck, wasn't that the most delicious sound?--_ before she swatted him away.

“Ready to go?” Edwyn appeared in front of them, just enough time to allow them to compose themselves before he saw.

“Aye, let's be rid of this shit hole.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their interaction with the Sapphire Lions (is that their ship name? I couldn't find much info...) isn't over, for sure! ;)
> 
> Hopefully that gave a little more insight into Edwyn, for those of you who still hate him. Lemme know what you think!
> 
> Also, seriously, I know I haven't been responding that much to comments and only recently have I been updating somewhat frequently, but I'd like to say that I really do appreciate hearing from anyone who's reading. Comments & kudos bring a smile to my face. :D I've just got a lot of personal shtuff going on right now with wedding planning, etc., so I apologize if I don't seem like I'm giving AO3 too much of my attention. :/ I love y'all!


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A gifset for you.](http://its-meggowaffle.tumblr.com/post/143678778915/a-big-gifset-for-a-mini-chapter-chapter-31-of-the)

She wanted to be there; safe in his arms without a care in the world. But the fact was that they'd been wandering the same route for the past three hours, the wind whipping at their faces every time they crossed a clearing, and the tip of her nose was frozen, and they still weren't free of the people following them.

“Lannister men,” he'd said, just as the ferry pulled away from the dock along the riverbank. “They finally found us.” Ten of them, there'd been, and they'd watched them all the way across the muddy water. Across the chopchop of the waves gushing downstream, pushing the rickety ferry further off course than it should have been.

“What do we do?”

“Try to evade them.”

 

And so they had, looping over their tracks several times, crossing and recrossing the same streams, getting down and brushing over the hoof prints with branches Edwyn hacked down with that ax he'd found after the fire.

The boy Sandor had knocked out finally woke up in the afternoon, spewing out his breakfast as soon as he regained consciousness and following it with a string of curses at being tied to a horse and carted off with strangers. She'd had to calm him down after that. The only one, it seemed, who had any patience of late to speak the kind words they needed to keep him from yelling out through the forest.

“Shh, it's alright. We're friendly. I'm sorry about earlier.” Words about where they were going and who they were meeting up with. His eyes changed a little when she said Arya was likely to be there when they arrived at the Twins.

They'd had to stop for a moment to get him some water. Water the horses, too. He had a head ache, he said, to which Sandor grunted that he wasn't surprised. And dizzy, it seemed, when he begrudgingly hopped back up on Sansa's dappled stallion, wobbling in the saddle. “I'll be alright,” he slurred, almost as bad as Edwyn had been before. Sansa smiled at him kindly, wondering just how badly Sandor had injured him with that blow.

All these broken things, and they were the ones to protect her.

 

“All these sticks are frozen solid,” Sansa complained, picking another one up from the ground before chucking it back down again. No good. They wouldn't be able to light a fire with any of this shite. Not that he enjoyed fire, that was for sure, but they were certain to freeze if they didn't get one going soon.

“Winter is coming,” Edwyn declared as if it wasn't already evident, squinting up at the late afternoon sky, heavy with the rolling underbellies of stormclouds. “You two work on building a shelter, we'll work on sorting the fire out.” Gendry looked underwhelmed with that decision.

“Aye,” Sandor agreed, motioning for Sansa to follow him after he collected the ax from Edwyn. “Come on, little bird, let's build you a nest.”

 

Sansa worked at the pile of boughs next to her, carefully laying them against the branches Sandor had stood up, like he instructed. It felt good to useful for once. “Aye little bird, like that,” he approved on his next delivery, dropping more boughs in with the other ones.

Edwyn'd finally managed to get a fire going behind them, now gathering what he could find to set next to it to dry them out. Sandor looked over to him, gauging if he was paying attention. The knight stooped over the fire, tending to the flames.

“Do you think this will keep us warm enough?” She wove another bough into the makeshift roof, doubting whether some sticks and needles would insulate against the cold.

“I know something that would keep us warmer,” he said, pulling her to him and kissing her.

She squealed, swatting at his chest though her lips were wide in a smile. “ _We can't_ ,” she whispered conspiratorially, wondering if she would if she could. She'd been so full of certainty that morning, but now it had wheezed out of her. Sandor looked over to the other men and frowned when Edwyn shot him a warning look. “Aye, I suppose you're right.”

He turned, looking defeated as he trudged back through the frost-crunchy leaf litter, going to retrieve more pieces for their shelter. “Sandor, wait.” She pulled at his arm as he rounded a tree, stilling his movements. “It's not that I don't want to,” she coaxed. Placed his hand on her waist. “I just… It's not like we're alone like before.”

“Aye,” he said, squinting up at the swaying branches to avoid her pleading eyes. “So you're ashamed.” He jerked his hand back and turned to leave, but she touched his couter, staying him.

“I'm not ashamed, Sandor.” A half-turn, the look of waiting for the other shoe to drop. She pulled at his arm, and like before, it was easier to move him than she expected. “Come here,” she said, and he bent to her, letting her kiss him, wrap her hands behind his neck. “I just don't want to hear another word from Edwyn about how this can't be, and I don't want to think about what will happen when we get to the Twins, and I have a million other things in my head right now. I don't want you to be angry. Sandor, I want to kiss you. I want to wake up curled up to you. But I don't think there can be anything else, and I can't think about that right now.”

He pursed his lips, nodded. _'Is that all?'_ She got a glimpse of how it would be if he were her sworn shield. Following her orders. It wouldn't do. “I should get back to making the roof.”

“Aye, little bird. Make your nest.”

 

Edwyn and Gendry were chatting between themselves; the two with the impeded speech discussing Flea Bottom or a bull's helmet or parentage or whatever the fuck two strangers talk about.

And there she was, leaning against him like she had the right to do as she pleased with him. But she did, didn't she? Always would. He'd let her, despite the imminence of their certain parting. And gods, he wished it was safer out there in that forest. Wished he could take off his armor and feel her against him.

He'd made up his mind. Edwyn had said he'd speak to King Robb on his behalf; that he would be able to have whatever position he liked, so long as it suited his skills. He'd ask for a position in the garrison, maybe even lead, if the king in the North would have it.

He picked up her hand, wrapped around his arm like it belonged there. Her palm was coated in spots of resin from the boughs, and he picked up the plate next to him, coated with fat from the quail the stray cooked for them. He ran his thumb through it, against her palm and the sticky patches. She was looking up at him, he could tell, her face probably lit in that warm fire glow, hair ablaze, and eyes set on him. But he couldn't look at her, just ran his thumb over her skin until the resin was gone, and some more. Too tender for a hound, gentle enough for a bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been in a rather blah mood lately, so apologies for the mood of this chapter. But it was still the direction I planned on taking it, so I suppose it works. Hopefully I'll have something longer out soon, but this is day 5 out of 14 that I will be working straight, so no guarantees. Ugh!
> 
> Also, we know they're headed to the Twins, yes? I hadn't much planned for the in-between bits from the town to the Twins, so I'll be speeding things along. No point in writing a bunch of fluff just to pass time in the story, huh?
> 
> Hope you all have a happy May Day.


	32. Chapter 32

It was mornings like those that she wished she could wrap up and tuck away under her summer silks, safe from anyone's prying eyes and safe from the finality discovery seemed to always bring with it. It was easy to keep a dream going if it was only just a dream. Once it was out in the open, it was exposed, in danger. Real.

And that wasn't something she could deal with at that moment.

So in the still of the morning, when the frost was fresh on the fallen leaves, and frozen mist still hung under the canopy of trees, she peeled herself out from under his arm and stretched, procrastinating leaving the warmth of his body. She'd sworn to herself to stop. But still his kisses came, and still she gave in to them, to the feeling of butterflies and happiness that overcame her whenever his mangled lips met hers. It wasn't right, was it? This hound and this little bird, as he called her. Quite the opposite. But for all their companions knew, she was just using his warmth to supplement the blankets, staving off the cold of the night. Not that they would fall asleep wrapped tightly together, her head tucked under his chin and a kiss pressed to her crown every night.

No, they couldn't know. It would spoil everything.

She rubbed her eyes, surveying camp before accepting the fact that she'd have to get out of their makeshift bed eventually. He was still asleep next to her, jaw slack and his arm still outstretched from providing a pillow for her. She remembered how back in the keep, it had seemed so odd to see him that way; a contrast from the hard steel he always was. She brushed back the strand of hair that had fallen over his cheek, smiling to herself. If only she'd known then. If only she'd known she loved him.

 

It was one of the only moments that she could truly have to herself, really, as undignified as it was. Ladies truly weren't suited for life in a forest, without the luxury of a chamberpot. Luxury! Who would have thought she'd ever consider that a _luxury…_

She headed back into camp, pulling the gap of her cloak closed, and trying as best she could to muffle the crunch of leaves underfoot. The others were yet to rise, there in the dawn hours. And she was almost back to their little bough-thatched shelter when the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end; that unshakable, unmistakable feeling of being watched. It was all too familiar a feeling after being in King's Landing. She quickened her pace, not wanting to look around, all thought of the leaves forgotten as she rushed back to Sandor.

“Wake up,” she shook him, and he blinked his eyes blearily in the weak light.

“Whassit?” he slurred, his cognitive facilities taking a minute to start up in the morning.

“There's someone out there, I think. I didn't see them, but-”

In an instant, he was up, sword gathered from his side. “Stay here,” he ordered, not ungently. A well-practiced cinch of his belt, and his sword was secure, at its constant place at his side. He turned to wake Edwyn up, hushing over his shoulder at her to cover herself in the blankets; make herself disappear.

She did as she was told, wiggling herself into the bough bedding, trying her best to make herself look like just a pile of cloth.

 

* * *

 

“Edwyn, wake up.” He kicked at his boot, turned to the other one. “You too, boy.”

“What's going on?” Edwyn roused, immediately inspecting the campsite. “Sansa?”

“No, she's fine. She said she thought something might have been out there,” he supplied, scouring the treeline like the knight below him.

“What's happening?” Gendry asked, his voice tinged with the airiness of sleep.

“Get up, boy. Do you have a weapon?”

“No, I-”

“Here,” Sandor pulled the dagger free from its sheath at the small of his back, handing it to the bastard. “Do you know how to use it, at least?”

He rolled his eyes, almost that same blue as the little bird's. “Of course I do.”

“Good. Up you get.” He and Edwyn left to inspect the periphery woods, Gendry scrambling to keep up with them.

“Stay with Sansa,” Edwyn called back at him, halting him in his tracks. “We'll take care of whatever's out here.”

 

* * *

 

He could see their tracks even from yards away; clearly they hadn't been trying to conceal themselves as his group had been. Likely those red guards from the shoreline. At least they'd made it almost a sennight without meeting up with them. But all things must come to an end. _Valar morghulis_ , he remembered hearing a Braavosi sailor say once. _All men must die._

Hopefully it would be those soldiers' day today. _'Hopefully_ ,' he scoffed. Of course it would be.

“Well, would you look at that, a Hound's made friends,” a voice called from behind them, followed by the chortling of several other men.

They swung around, meeting the men behind them.

“Do I know you?” Sandor said, stalling for time as he worked out how best to attack the assembly. Edwyn would take the left four, he could take the other six. But of course he recognized the man speaking; one of Gregor's pet rats.

“I'm sure you don't, but with a face like that, who could mistake _you?_ ” the man leered. “I'm sorry to inform you, but your brother is no longer with us.” The man schooled his face into something resembling somberness, if not for the ill-concealed smirk riding underneath the surface. “I'm sure you already knew that, though.”

Ah. So that was why they were after them. Not the girl. Who knew rats were loyal? He gripped the hilt of his sword, readying himself to strike.

“I don't think that's yours,” Edwyn said to the nigh-bald man, out of the blue and tilting his head at the thin sword tucked into his belt.

“'Course it is,” he snapped back, affronted.

“Enough of this shite. You didn't follow us for a chat.” Sandor drew his sword, Edwyn following with his, too.

 

* * *

 

“They've been gone a while,” Gendry said, trying his best to sound casual from his perch near the burned out campfire. He'd come over after the other two had told him to stay, taking residence on one of the stumps in the center of camp. She stayed under her blankets, holding her breath and trying to calm the terror in her stomach. “Maybe I should go find them?”

“No, don't go,” she muffled under her soft armor. There would be _nothing_ to protect her if he left. She tried to inventory the camp if such an event occurred; they'd left the bow and arrows, hadn't they? Not that it would do her much good. Edwyn had been teaching the other two to use it, had handed it to her to try. The string was much too difficult for her to pull. Maybe she could make due with an arrowhead…

“My lady, they've been gone _a long_ time.”

_Gods._ Why couldn't they just be behind the safety of the Twins' walls already? Hadn't they fought enough?

She could hear the din of steel clashing in the distance, through the little patch of blankets she'd pushed away so she could listen. _Please be alright_ , she prayed to the Mother. _Please keep them safe._

 

* * *

 

The bald one had managed to stay for most of the fight; Sandor had been surprised at that. He looked older than he supposed he was. What was his name? Did it matter? He was sure he'd heard it once or twice, and he strained to remember it.

Not that it mattered.

He swung around again, sliding the length of his steel along the side of one of- _that was it! Polliver!-_ Polliver's comrades, the sliced man belching out a great spurt of blood. Oh, it was good to wet his sword again. He rounded, seeing Edwyn kick against the chest of the man he'd skewered to free his sword.

Three more and they'd be free of them. Three more and he could go collect the bird.

 

* * *

 

_Oh, gods._ They _had_ been away for a while, hadn't they? The steel-song had quieted a little, perhaps from there being less in the fight. But there was still a fight, she reminded herself. _They wouldn't be fighting amongst themselves, so one of them, at least, must still be alive._ She pulled at the blankets again, drawing them closer to her frame. She hoped it was Sandor, fighting back the guilt that she should even have to choose. _Mother, please let them both be alright_.

“That's it, they've been gone too long. I'm going after them,” Gendry called to her, and she couldn't answer through the paralysis of knowing he would be leaving her unprotected. _Gods, no_.

She listened to the crunch of his bootsteps as he traipsed through camp, storming off in the direction the others had gone. Her breathing stilled, her ears trained on any sound, any information, any warning that someone was coming back into camp.

_Make yourself be still. You're not here_ , she reminded herself.

 

* * *

 

The gurgling fountain of blood spilling from Polliver's mouth was more refreshing than those lily-laced ones in the capital, the seep of red over the leaves more colorful than the turquoise tiles underneath the splashing fountains. He'd missed killing. _Killing's the sweetest thing there is_ , he'd told her once. _'Spose that's not entirely true_ , he remembered, the touch of her lips on his, the squeeze of her teat in his hand. But he'd missed it just the same.

He'd been right. No point in hoping if you had confidence in your swordsmanship. He looked over at Edwyn, wiping the blood off of his sword on one of the men's cloaks. _And back-up_.

The boy came running up at them, almost out of breath either from nerves or the effort or- _wait._ If he was here, then where was Sansa?

“You _left her_?” He rounded on Gendry, anger filling his voice just as suddenly as recognition filled the boy's eyes. “ You knew she was in danger and you _left her_?”

He stalked past the bastard, just as he heard him address the dead bodies. “You killed them all,” he said, almost mystified. “Ten men and you killed them all.”

“Aye, he's a good fighter,” Edwyn said, stooping to collect the sword he'd noted earlier.

“That's Lady Arya's sword,” Gendry said, reaching for it. “They took it from her.”

Edwyn hummed; confirmed. “You can give it back to her when you see her.”

_And now he'll be armed, too._

 

 

 

She'd done a good job of it, by the looks of the empty bough-tent when he got back into camp. She may not have been any good at defending herself, but at least she could hide well enough. Practice from the Captial, most like. He shuddered thinking of why she probably would have had to.

“Sansa,” he whispered at the edge of the makeshift shelter, tugging on the blankets.

She sprung up, alarm and chest heaving in panic; a frightened little bird. “Oh, it's _you._ ” She breathed, climbing out of the bedding fortress she'd constructed. “You're alright.” She stood, reaching up to him, pulling him down to her.

_That_ was the sweetest thing there was. Her lips, the way she moved under him. _Gods_. He'd almost forgotten about those men he'd just slain when the leaves at the edge of camp crunched, breaking them apart. Sansa fumbled away from him, quite unlike the composed lady he knew she was, trying to avoid the stern look on the face of the knight in front of her.

_Fucking Edwy_ _n,_ he grumbled. _Always the worst timing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm shit at battle sequences. But yay, a little more fluff?


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, you've waited long enough...  
> [Gifset](http://its-meggowaffle.tumblr.com/post/146107579825/new-chapter-up-for-the-great-escape-love-you)

_You two, with me,_ he'd glared as he stalked past them into the forest. Sansa, of course, obeyed immediately, doing as she was bid, and for some reason, Sandor found himself begrudgingly traipsing after them.

“I thought I told both of you that this couldn't be?” Edwyn reprimanded, pointing between the two of them, motioning at Sansa's hand as it twitched to grab onto Sandor's. “I thought I was clear? King Robb will have your head if you take hers.” Sandor rolled his eyes. For the gods' sake, he wasn't that _stupid_. He knew those damned noblemen cared more about some flap of skin than the woman it belonged to. He knew better. And she did too.

“Edwyn, we-” Sansa began, but the look in his eyes cut her off.

“Sansa, need I remind you of your house words? Winter is coming. You know- you should expect- that when we get to the Twins, you're to be married off. You _know_ that you can't be fooling around with some man on the road. You _know that_. Family, duty, honor. Remember your mother? Those are your words, too. You have an obligation.”

“I-” she tried, but he silenced her again.

“And you, Clegane. I expected more of you. You are an honorable man. You know what is at stake if she is dishonored. She is a high noble-born Lady, and I'm not saying you are not worthy. It is not my place. I am simply saying that she is not promised to _you._ ”

Sandor squared his shoulders, readying for an argument. Yes, yes, he had a point. But for the gods' sake, when was he ever going to get the chance to be with her again? When was he ever going to get the chance to feel like he did with her again? Wasn't it worth defending? He took a deep breath, preparing his words-

But Edwyn stopped him, holding up a hand for silence, a solemn look painted on his face. “This needs to stop when we get to your brother,” he said to Sansa, catching both of them quite off guard. “And Sandor, I expect you to remain honorable. The two of you need to be more careful. Who knows who could see you out here? Who knows if this boy is to be trusted? You have my word that it will not get passed on to Robb, at least from me, but I cannot speak for anyone else.

“This stops at the Twins. Do you understand?”

Sansa nodded obediently, and Sandor felt his head following, more out of shock than anything else. Had he heard him correctly? This knight who'd had a stick up his ass for so long…

Edwyn nodded curtly, spun around, and headed back to camp, leaving them there in silence between the pines.

 

* * *

 

It felt different now, curled up in his arms in their makeshift tent. Two more sennights since the talk with Edwyn in the woods; only one until they reached the Twins. It felt different, knowing that Edwyn knew, that it felt like he somehow approved. Warmer; like the heavy weight of his arm around her stomach was supposed to be there, supposed to be more than just in her mind.

 

But only seven more days of this. Such a brief amount of time considering all the wasted time they could have been doing this before. Only a sennight more to hold him like this, the firelight dying as the night pressed on, warm under the blankets piled on top of them, their shared heat. Only that amount of time until she would undoubtedly be left alone to warm her own bed, until she faced her doom.

 

She twisted around to face him, the now familiar feeling of pine needles poking through the material of her dress as she shifted. He was fast asleep, mouth slack and head resting on his shoulder. What she wouldn't give to put these last few days in a capsule; keep them with her forever to play back when she needed them in her marriage bed.

 

* * *

 

One more sennight and he might see her. Little shit that she was, last he saw her. He wondered how she might be different now; it had been almost five years, people were bound to change.

 

He had, for sure. Set up his own shop, made his own way. He was proud of that. Something of his _own._ Not something that had been paid for by some mysterious benefactor. Not something that was begrudgingly given to him because he'd proven himself useful with a forge. Just his; something he'd worked for and achieved.

 

He wondered if that would matter to her. For true, he didn't really know much about her. Barely a month on the road with the other boys bound for the Wall. That's not enough to know someone.

 

Was it enough to so easily let what he'd worked for slip away from him? To be kidnapped and lured along solely by the promise of getting to see her again?

 

_No_ , he told himself. It was curiosity. Caring for a friend. That's why he was going along with them. And the promise of work. He knew, too, that as soon as winter came, Harroway's would be as sure as gone. The river would rise to wipe it off the map, and along with it, his shop.

 

_No_ , he told himself. This was for the better. But he couldn't help the niggling feeling whenever they would talk amongst themselves that they were keeping something from him. Some tidbit of information that was the crucial pin to why they'd even bothered with him. There must be other blacksmiths they could have stumbled across. There must be _better_ ones. _Why me?_ he still asked himself late at night, when they'd all settle into their tents, the two pretend-not-to-be lovers murmuring quietly through the boughs of their shelter.

 

How stupid did they think he was? Thinking he didn't know. He'd heard the three of them talking that day; Edwyn saying that he didn't know if he could trust him. Of course they could. How stupid would it be to betray their trust? Self-detrimental, for sure. If there was one thing he'd learned in Flea Bottom, it was how to look after himself, and the way to do that now was to stay in their favor.

 

One more sennight, and he'd face the King in the North. Much as they'd talked about it, he still wasn't sure of the outcome. Yes, he'd been promised work. But this wasn't Flea Bottom. This wasn't Kings Landing. It wasn't a city, with trade and people coming and going from the road, always in need of a repair or a special piece. It was a warfront outpost, an occupied castle, and for the Freys at that. He didn't know much of the houses. But what she'd taught him about some of them said enough. The ones they'd have to pass through on the way to the Wall. The shadiness of Walder Frey and his collection of daughters and slimy sons. She'd certainly sold them poorly, and his stomach turned to think of having to be there at all.

 

But she would be there. Arya. Hopefully she'd remember him. So long ago, some peasant boy with no hope for a good future; destined for the Wall. How had that changed? Or would it still be the same to her? What did it matter, anyway…. A highborn lady and some bastard…

 

* * *

 

“You two've gotten better,” Edwyn said to their backs, restringing one of the bows while Sandor grabbed another arrow and searched for breakfast. “Soon enough, and you'll be as good as my sons. Though, I must say my daughter was always better at it,” he mused with a smirk, remembering his children.

“Aye, and if you keep yammering, you'll scare away our meal,” Sandor grumbled, squinting at the flock of geese foraging in the clearing in front of them. “I don't need to remind you we haven't eaten in three days.”

Gendry's stomach growled angrily, and he glared at both of them. Breakfast mattered more than conversation right now. A fat winter goose would do the trick.

Sandor aimed, lining up one of the unsuspecting fowl nearer to them. The morning was calm, overnight mist still clinging to the ground, not a breath of wind. It should be an easy shot. He pulled back the string, thinking of roasted goose over the campfire, willing his stomach not to share the same temperament as the bastard next to him.

He started to release his grip on the arrow, the fraction of a second before loosing it slowing down as he saw a flash of something in the trees at the other side of the clearing. A glint of metal, barely perceptible if not for studying the horizon already. In an instant, the geese scattered, shooting to the air in panic and a clamor of calls.

“Gods dammit,” he roared, throwing his bow to the ground and stomping into the clearing, drawing his sword. “I'll have his head for that, whoever it is,” he grumbled, the other men chasing after him as he strode to where he'd last seen the shine of metal.

“Sandor, wait! We don't need- Sansa. She's by herself,” Edwyn called after him.

He turned, the look on his face plainly conflicted between revenge for a lost meal and protecting the other bird.

“I'll go back,” Edwyn settled, turning back to camp.

“Right. You've your sword?” Sandor said to the man next to him, a second before the slender weapon was drawn.

“Of course.”

“Be ready for a fight,” he threw over his shoulder, Gendry just a foot or two behind him.

He crossed the clearing in seconds, through the mist-sodden dying grass and past the goose which had sparked this whole thing; an arrow sticking straight out of its bloodiest breast. He made a mental note to pick it up after he'd dispatched its killer.

He only faltered in his path when he saw the beast, bigger than it had any right to be, emerge from the forest. Its owner stepped out behind it, raising the bow responsible for the slain goose, for potentially still getting him breakfast.

“Stop or I'll shoot,” the archer called, the beast pulling back its lips in a threat like its master's. Teeth as big as any he'd ever seen. “I've no reason to spare you, Hound.”

“Is that so?” He smirked, realizing once he got closer who he was talking to. “I bet your pretty sister would have something to say about that.”

“You killed Mycah,” she said, adjusting the arrow and aiming at his face. “I've yet to forgive you for that.”

“Who the fuck's Mycah?” he grumbled, still advancing despite her wolf still growling at him. _Now would be an excellent time to advance, Gendry_ , he willed to the man behind him.

“The butcher's boy. You killed him.”

“Aye, I did,” he smirked. _Bleeder, that one._ Stranger had been miserable to ride for a week after, stank so bad. “Under the king's orders.”

Finally, Gendry rounded him, facing the girl he hadn't shut up about since they'd taken him from his shop. “Arya?”

Her face fell, like she'd seen a ghost. But her bow arm wavered not, still aiming at Sandor. “What's he done to you? I'll shoot him if he's hurt you,” she warned, glancing back momentarily at Sandor. The wobbling of her voice betrayed her calm, though. _Wolf bitch_.

“It's not like that,” Gendry tried. “You can lower your bow, Arya... Arry.” He smiled, and she lowered her bow, still glaring at Sandor.

“You said something about Sansa?”

“Aye, your sister's at camp,” Sandor replied, admittedly relieved that he was no longer a target. At least for now.

She shouldered her bow, set her face. “Take me to her, then.”

“This way, m'Lady,” Gendry turned, his arm outstretched in the direction of camp.

 

The goose hung limply in Sandor's hand as they crossed the field, he several steps in front of them to distance himself from their chatter.

“...you have my sword...”

“well, if m'Lady would like it back...”

He could feel the bile rising even then. Were he and Sansa that disgusting? Surely not….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if their last leg of the journey seems a bit rushed. I'm getting a little impatient with their trip, because of my plans for the rest of the chapters. Hopefully soon we'll get them to the Twins.
> 
> Thanks for being so patient. :) Baby Bean is certainly not cooperating to making it easy to focus on writing at the moment, so *cross your fingers* that I feel well enough to get another chapter out soon. On a related note, any mothers out there? Anything that's helped you through morning sickness? :/


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear lord this is short.  
> Of note, I suppose, is my assumed heights of Sandor (Upper 6's?)/Sansa (somewhere in the mid to high 5's)/Arya (somewhere in the short 5's). I dunno if that matters to anyone else, just thought I'd throw that in there.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, watching that dog's back as he stalked through the camp to retrieve Sansa. But the man in front of her was a more important issue. “I thought you were just going to follow them?”

“Well, plans have changed,” Edwyn replied, the frown on his face clearly indicative that _where did I go wrong_ look she'd seen a thousand times. “And why are you so far away from the Twins? I thought we'd agreed you'd stay with your brother this time.”

Arya narrowed her eyes, reveling partially in the fact that out here in the woods, _Edwyn_ couldn't do a damn thing about it.

“Does he even know you're out here?”

“Probably not yet,” she goaded, squinting up at him to weigh his reaction. “He doesn't make a habit of keeping track of me like some people do.”

Edwyn clenched his jaw, a sharp reprimand coming, surely, for her insolence.

“Ayra?” an almost-forgotten voice sounded from over his shoulder, bewilderment and joy and confusion plain on her sister's pale face as she stepped closer.

_Saved me just in time_ , _sister_. Arya smirked, partly for the pause in escalation between herself and the _knight,_ but almost entirely for the sight of the last missing remnant of her flesh and blood; standing right in front of her.

 

* * *

 

Sandor stared at them over the campfire, the fat dripping off the goose and making the flames spit angrily as he turned it. They'd certainly changed since he'd last seen them together, bickering over stupid childish things on the King's Road. The ornery little one not so little anymore, the beautiful priss not so prissy now that she'd been covered in dirt from the road, from his hands.

They sat not far from him, but their conversation was drowned out even in the few yards. He could tell they were catching up on things he didn't give two shits about; he was busy trying to decipher the knight's behavior ever since the girl walked into camp. He was angry about something, and he couldn't figure out what. Made sense that he'd know her; a man in the employ of her family. A lover spurned, perhaps? No, that didn't seem to fit. Even though he still flicked an occasional warning glance over to the bastard.

And the girl seemed to know something she wasn't sharing with the rest of them. He didn't like secrets, especially when it seemed to be about people he'd learned to trust.

He resolved to sniff it out. A dog always does.

 

* * *

 

Her sister! Her sister! Ayra! All Sansa wanted to do was wrap her arms around her and never let her go, but Arya shrugged her off after the first attempt. Still the same, apparently. Though she wasn't snapping at her like she used to. The years had mellowed her out, a little, thankfully. She stole a glance over to the giant shadow on the other side of camp; not the only one to mellow.

“--and then, I ended up meeting a Faceless man! Can you believe it?--” her sister squirmed in excitement on the log next to her, though she was only half-listening. _How could a man have no face?_ Some of the things she was telling her just made no sense. And besides, she wanted to hear of her family, of her mother and her little brothers, and yes, yes, how she managed to get out of King's Landing and into the safety of the Northmen was important, but… _Wait, did she just say something about killing someone?_

“Arya, you're going to have to slow down,” Sansa placed a hand on her arm, trying to dam the flood of information. “We have time to talk about this, now.”

_They had time_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I'm gonna stop saying that I'll try to have another chapter out soon, cause it never seems to happen. Maybe I'm jinxing myself? Just know that I've got a lotta stuff coming up in August, so I'm not sure when I'll be writing.   
> But! I do have plans for the rest of the story. Just gotta get it out of my head and into my laptop.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's [SnowWhiteKnight?](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowWhiteKnight/pseuds/SnowWhiteKnight)

“So I take it you haven't told them,” Arya said, mouth half-full with left over goose from that morning. Edwyn sat next to her on the log, sharpening his sword over his knees like he always did.

He paused to reply quietly, “Haven't found the right chance.”

She shoved the rest of the meat into her mouth, licking her fingers after; ever the reminder how different the two women in camp were. “Are you going to?”

“May as well just wait til we get to camp, now.” He resumed his task, steel on stone drowning out the few remaining crickets behind them. “Not like to believe it, anyway. Especially not that one,” he said, inclining his head across the fire to where Sandor rested.

“What's with him, anyway? I thought he was sworn to the Lannisters.”

“He was in the service to the Lannisters. I don't think he was ever _sworn_. Not sure that he would. He's a good man, though. Despite how it appears.”

“Sansa seems to have taken a liking to him,” Arya observed, noting how her sister was doting on the big man's leg across the fire; how he wasn't swatting her away.

“Aye. She has.”

“And you're alright with that?”

“Not much I can do. Tried to, but I don't have much leverage like this,” he said, sweeping a hand in the air over his frame. “But he's remained respectful, as far as I can tell. They both swore they weren't up to anything, and I believe them.”

“You remember how she looked at Joffrey, don't you? All puppy-eyes and golden-haired baby dreams, remember?”

He smiled at her, half a chuckle. “Aye. She was young. And so were you, Arya. Be easy on your sister.”

“I'm just saying: it's _worse_ now.”

“Mhmm,” he sighed under his breath. “And what about you and the Baratheon boy?”

“He's not _a boy_. He's older than me; and I'm not a _girl_.”

“As you keep reminding me.”

She delayed, spinning the gnawed goose bone between her fingers.

“Arya? What's between you and the boy?”

“Nothing,” she lied, raising her brows to the flames and trying to look away. Though she only managed to lay her eyes on the person in reference, fiddling with the links of some chainmail at the entrance to one of the bough tents.

“I thought you were a better liar than that,” Edwyn elbowed her, trying to nudge out the truth.

“There isn't anything. I- I thought there was.”

“Did you want there to be?” He asked, stone in hand stilled on the blade.

She threw the bone into the fire, hard enough to knock over one of the charred-out logs, sending sparks shooting to the air. “I don't want to talk about this,” she huffed as she stood up abruptly, grabbing Needle and heading off into the forest. “Especially not with you.”

 

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

They were almost there. Just a few more nights, and they would be entering camp at the Twins, moments away from seeing more of her family. Her heart couldn't be more full, the prospect of seeing her own flesh and blood, of having embraced her sister again, of laying there, in the frosty bough tent, under a pile of blankets and snuggled up next to the man she loved. And yet there was the ever-present sadness, the realization that she wouldn't get to see _all_ of her family, because not _all_ of her family was alive anymore. And yes, presently she could feel his arm wrapped around her, the scratch of his stubble on her forehead, but in a few days, it would be ripped away from her.

It wasn't anything of a surprise.

She'd known this was coming. She'd accepted the fact a while ago, from the moment she touched his lips and let the possibility of doing it again enter her mind. Maybe the finite time was part of the appeal. He'd been good to her. He'd shown her kindness. She hoped that maybe he'd benefited from it, too. That the anger once present in his heart had thawed, that the Mother had granted her prayers and gentled the rage. It seemed to be so.

Or at least, time in the company of people who weren't constantly ordering him about had done some good. People who treated him as their equal. Who didn't call him _dog_.

How _could_ Joffrey be so cruel? The thought made her nuzzle into him more. This so-called “dog” that had never once bitten her.

_Well, there was that one time_ , she thought scandalously, feeling her cheeks redden in the pitch black. But that was different. That was… nice.

She pressed her nose against his jaw, and he responded by placing his lips on hers, and she wondered if she would ever get used to the butterflies that swarmed in her stomach when he touched her like that. She hoped not; she'd hold onto the feeling as hard as she could and save it for when they could no longer be together. She'd keep it like she'd kept his cloak, tucked away in a latibule.

“I love you,” she whispered to him, next to the hole that should have been his ear. He'd never said it back; no. But she could tell by the way he looked at her, the kiss that he'd place to her crown every night, that it was reciprocated. And she knew that such a thing was probably a foreign feeling to him. A man so mistreated all his life, a man so used to killing.

He only kissed her back, running his hand up her side under the blanket, holding her closer. He knew, too. Their days like this were numbered. Best not to spend them talking. His other hand reached for her cheek, a calloused thumb tracing along the soft skin there. He pulled her to him, a movement as second-nature as breathing to her now. A gentle kiss, then a deeper one, until soon she was breathless and flushed. She could always feel him smiling against her, something he never did outside of their little tent, proud, she supposed, to illicit such a reaction from her. She never seemed to be able to do the same to him, though. Not since the day in the inn; he'd been carefully restrained and on his best behavior for the most part, and she sorely wanted to make him feel the same.

“Sandor,” she cooed, reaching up to cup his hand with her own. Her stomach flip-flopped at an enticing prospect, the certainty of knowing she shouldn't do what she was going to almost outweighing the desire for it. But she wanted him to feel her, and she wanted to memorize every moment they had left, be able to replay it when she needed to; for that day when another man entered her marriage chamber.

She led his hand down, past the point where he usually stopped at her collar, pausing for a moment to unfasten the ties of her dress.

“Sansa, this isn't wise.”

“Shh,” she soothed, for herself, too, in between a peppering of kisses. “I want to feel you.”

She'd expected the difference in their skin; had grown quite fond of the dichotomy of rough working hands and smooth soft skin, but when she steered his hand inside her dress, placed it upon her breast, it was an entirely different feeling. Her body instantly responded, that once-unfamiliar warmth between her legs springing to action. Since the inn, she'd realized what it was, when he had her against the wall, when she was clamoring for the handle to the door; to gain access to a bed.

He was gentle, and she didn't want him to be. She wanted him to stop restraining himself, wanted him to feel like he made her feel. So she guided his hand, squeezed against his fingers to tell him what she wanted him to do, moved her lips from his mouth to his neck so he could divert his attention. He caught on quickly. He always did; a warrior needn't many instructions to accomplish a task. And soon he was doing what she wanted, which was nothing she'd told him to do. He kneaded her breast, ran his thumb over her nipple until her body ached for something _more._ And when he claimed it with his mouth instead, she couldn't help the moan that escaped her lips. He smiled against her, mouth still on her, tongue swirling at the sensitive flesh, and stubble scratching against it. His hands drifted to her waist, squeezing, and then she was in the air, free from him for only a moment as he settled her over his hips.

“Sandor, we can't,” she reminded him, feeling a hardness pressing against her. Of course, in a perfect world, of course she'd let him have her. But this wasn't a perfect world…

“I know,” he grumbled, a tone deeper than she'd heard him muster before. He ran his hands up her belly while she adjusted the blankets, staving off the cold air swirling around them in this new position.

“I wish we could,” she frowned down at him in the darkness, her voice tinged with disappointment and growing lust. Regretfully, he was still clad in his armor, and she ran a finger over the bumps of the mail wishing that he wasn't.

“So do I, little bird,” he said, raising up to press his chest against her, making her shiver at the contact of metal. He pushed her hair away, exposing her neck so he could kiss it. “But this will have to do.”

She pushed her fingers through his hair, across the gnarled surface of his scalp, staring into what she assumed to be his eyes. What she wouldn't give to have this moment transported to one of her dreams; well-lit, warm, unhurried. She didn't notice the tear that had fallen down her cheek until he brushed it away, kissing its track. “You'll stay, won't you?” she whispered, burying her face in his neck. “Don't leave.”

He pulled her to him, laid back down. Tucked the blankets around them. “Of course, little bird.”

“I don't want this to end.”

“I know,” he soothed, so unlike the snarling beast everyone else made him out to be, brushing her hair to the side so he could kiss her shoulder. “I don't either.”

And she wished, one last time, to be wound up in bed with him, to feel him, for something longer than a fleeting few days.

“Go to sleep, little bird,” he said, gently pressing his nightly kiss to the top of her head. “Nothing to do about it, anyway.” And she settled her weight against him, one arm wrapped around his chest.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Arya, my[ thoughts](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/67/72/8b/67728b0b4719715fced265bcd85181fc.jpg), too.
> 
> Chapter [inspo](http://its-meggowaffle.tumblr.com/post/149130666670/new-chapter-up-in-the-great-escape).

“So you've decided then?”

_Fuck_ it was cold. Edwyn looked over at him, pausing mid-stroke from his washing, making Sandor note that he really must be of the north if he could sit there wet like that in the precipice of snow. He scrubbed himself as fast he could, their bucket of warm water quickly cooling.

“Aye, hadn't I said that? I'll stay on, if Robb'll have me.”

“Right, well. Didn't know if you'd changed your mind.” He resumed, steam rising off of his arm.

“Why would I?”

“Sansa.”

Sandor raised his good eyebrow. “What of her?”

“Well, you two have gotten quite close. I know she loves you; you can see it. My wife looks at me like that,” he said with a reminiscent smile. “And if you're staying on with Robb, then you'll likely be around her more.”

“I can handle it,” he replied, deadpan. “And besides, if she's going to be married off to that Bolton as soon as we get to camp, I'll not see much of her, anyway.” The prospect hadn't escaped him. In fact, it'd been eating away at him slowly since there'd been a waft of news.

Edwyn nodded silently, drying off his torso and donning his tunic. “Wish Robb'd picked someone else, to be honest with you.”

“Something wrong with the Bolton boy?”

He shrugged non-commitally, “Not precisely. Just the Boltons aren't exactly a savory bunch, as I'm sure you know.” Images of flayed men popped into his mind, and he repressed a shudder. He may be a killer, but that was a certain type of sinister that he didn't ascribe to. “And they've been, eh,” he wavered his hand in the air, “uneasy with the Starks historically. I think Robb's just rushing into something that he sees as strengthening the North. Not sure that it will. Not sure his father would have made the same decision.”

Sandor mulled over his words, pulled his tunic back on. Wished for a cloak. “You seem to have a lot of opinions,” he finally surmised.

“Aye, well; I'm concerned for her. I'm sure you are, too.”

The non-knight stared pointedly at a rock on the ground, edges rounded over with accumulated frost. _Aye_.

“Too bad you're not in the same political position as the Boltons.” Edwyn tossed the bucket's contents into the stream beneath them. “You'd be a much better match, obviously.”

Sandor snorted, _like that would ever happen_. “ _Right_ , a hound for a beautiful highborn maiden. You must have lost your mind, stray.”

Edwyn smiled a half-smile, heading back up the hill. “I think her father would have been proud to have a son such as you, even with your petulance. You're an honorable man, whether you care to acknowledge it or not, and I know he valued that.” For some reason, the words hit harder than he could have anticipated. Something he'd never gotten from his own worthless old man. He shook his head, dismissing the thought and silently thankful that the knight was ahead of him so as not to see. Just like the fantasy that the little bird would ever be his.

“Aye, Lord Stark was an honorable man,” he recovered. “And look where it landed him.”

“Even honorable men make poor decisions sometimes,” Edwyn defended.

“Should have known not to trust Cersei,” Sandor frowned, following him up the hill. “Or that snake Littlefinger.”

Edwyn hummed his agreement. “Never did like that man.”

“And what did you know of him?”

“Just his reputation. And his penchant for taken women,” Edwyn growled, a little more sensitively than should be expected of a household guard. “But in any case, that's in the past. _That_ Lord Stark is dead, and you've to face a new one tomorrow. Best to be prepared.” He motioned for Sandor to follow, to listen to the advice he had to share.

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you ever wonder if there are other worlds?” Sansa gazed at him, her elbow tucked up under her head for a pillow, finger idly running lines along the center of his chest. She'd been exceptionally happy he'd decided to let Gendry polish his armor that night, thereby leaving him without those extra layers.

“Fancy yourself a different tree, Bird?” he said, his voice a pitch lower with the nearness of slumber.

“No. I know there _can't_ be. I just… I wonder if there's somewhere out there where we're together and we're happy. Somewhere where _you_ were to be my Lord husband...”

“Now who's reverted back to her songs, eh?” he chided, pinching her side.

She flicked his chest, a little featherbeat against stone. “Shh, you!”

“Sansa, you wouldn't want to marry me, anyway. I'd be a shite husband.”

“No you wouldn't.”

“Aye, I would be. And what have I to offer you? No lands, no title, gold in a bank I can't access as I'm likely on warrant from the crown.”

“You _do_ have lands, Sandor, you just don't want them. It's not the same as not having them.”

He hummed his affirmation, “And the Clegane name can die with them as far as I'm concerned.”

“Oh, don't say that!”

He raised his eyebrow at her, tempting a response. “And why shouldn't I? Sansa, I accepted my fate a long time ago. I'm useful; I'm a good killer. But I'd make a shite husband, and an even worse Lord.”

“You don't know that. I'm sure that you'll find a lovely wife!” she tried, pausing with her finger to her lips; conjuring up a mate. “Let's see… she'd have lovely big brown eyes, and… and blonde hair? A good stature for children,” she imagined, squeezing his arm. “Your children would surely be hearty-”

“Sansa, stop,” he interrupted, watching the smile fade from her lips in the dim firelight, what was left of it flickering in through the boughs.

“I wasn't- I was just trying to make light that I won't get you any more.”

“Sansa, there isn't going to be some other woman down the line.”

“You don't know that!”

“Twenty and five years have told me otherwise.”

“Oh, please! I'm sure you've had your fair share of admirers,” she soothed, now watching her finger trace a circle over the fabric of his tunic. “I _can't_ have been your first love.”

He just stared at her in the near-darkness, shooting down her imaginary list of lovers.

“I… oh,” she whispered, crestfallen at all of what she'd just said. The truth that she was, in fact the only one. “But you- the brothels, and...”

“Whores aren't the same thing as little birds. Not quite the same caliber,” he grumbled, trying half-heartedly to help her climb out of the hole she'd found herself in. “And besides, I'm not too fond of blondes,” he said, twisting a lock of her hair around his finger. “I'm much more partial to red-heads, anyway.”

“Oh, is that so?” she chided, a sly smile creeping up.

“Mhmm.” He rolled her over, silenced her flutter of giggles with his mouth. “Except redheads,” a kiss to her cheek, “and little birds,” her earlobe, “don't seem,” her neck, “to know,” her collarbone, “not to tempt hounds.” He was thankful her dress was only secured with ties, one arm holding himself over her while the other worked at undoing them. “Because hounds can bite back, too, you know,” he said before descending on his path, capturing one of her nipples and rolling in gently between his teeth.

“Maybe that's why they taunt them,” she sighed, more a series of breaths than words as he continued. She ran her hands through his hair, her nails across his scalp, pinning his head to his task. She could feel him smile against her, the shift of his lips against her flesh. His hand drifted along her side and she let him free for a moment, watched him as he crouched as he could in the confines of their makeshift tent.

“Take this off,” she tugged at the hem of his tunic. “I want to feel you, too.” She wished she could see him, wished her fingers had eyes as they swept across his skin. _Finally_. He straightened back over her, pulling the blankets to cover them both. _So many scars_ , she revered, following the short, straight ones and the jagged lines that must have taken longer to recover. She kissed him, wanting to erase the years of damage inflicted to his skin, to his heart. But it was moot; she could never _erase_ it, just like he couldn't do the same to the ones he didn't yet know she had. She kissed him, pouring everything she had left into him, wanting at least to leave him feeling like he _had_ been loved, even if she couldn't keep him.

And he easily gave in to her push at his shoulder, encouraging him to lay on his back so she could work over him. Such a massive man so easily moved by a little bird. She ran her fingers down his chest, repeating her path from earlier, feeling the soft coat of hair across the expanse. Her lips worked at his neck, finally eliciting that low growl she'd wished to hear since the inn. How sweet it was; her stomach fluttered in response, that heat accumulating between her legs. She flung one thigh across his, pressuring the throbbing spot even though she knew she was only tempting herself more, rotating her hips so she could run her leg against that hardness in his breeches. He let out a hiss as she drifted by, a tease and a provocation she couldn't follow through on. _Gods_ , she wanted to.

Was it right for a Lady to want this? All her septa had ever taught her was that lying with a man was for producing heirs; nothing more. The men may get something out of it, but never the women. It was their duty, and that was all. _Poor Septa._ She wondered if she'd ever gotten to experience the same thing. If she'd even known that it could be reciprocated. Or maybe _this_ man was singular? Maybe he was the only one who could ever do this to her? Could make her feel cherished and wanton and loved and a dessert to be eaten all at the same time.

She hadn't realized where her hand had been drifting until his mouth stilled on her neck, hot breath another hiss against her skin and a strong hand circling her wrist. When had she drifted down that far?

“Sansa, don't,” he strained, moving her hand away from the waistband of his breeches. “I can't let you. I can't let _me._ ”

She sucked in a breath of air, shocked she'd gotten so carried away with herself. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“Don't be,” he smiled against her, nose running along her jaw. “But you definitely shouldn't continue on that _particular_ path.”

She couldn't. She couldn't! What was she doing? _Oh gods!_ She'd almost… she'd almost- _that's not what ladies do!_ She reached for the ties of her dress, yanking it closed rather hurriedly. Because _oh, the seven_! how she wanted to continue; but if she didn't retract herself now, she might not be able to.

“Come here,” he beckoned once he task was completed, pulling her to him and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, a hand at the back of her head to hold it to his chest.

“I shouldn't have. I'm sorry, Sandor.”

“Shh,” he quieted, running his fingers through her hair. “Just be here. With me.”

She smiled against his chest, savoring the feel of his warm skin against her cheek. Yes; here. With him. That's where she wanted to stay.

 

* * *

 

 

Gods, could he just keep her like that? Just preserve that moment and live in it for infinity, that woman who'd shown him such kindness, brushing off fresh-fallen snow from the horses, oblivious as of yet to his gaze. Fuck the killing. Her. She was the sweetest thing there was. He remembered that day she'd stopped him in the hall, after the bread riots. She'd thanked him for saving her, _like he_ _needed thanking_ , standing there in front of him like a shaking leaf. And now, sharing whatever they could call their shelter, when she would shake for an entirely different reason; for his hands on her skin, his breath at her neck. He ducked behind a tree to fix the stiffening in his breeches; the memory was so vivid.

But this was the last day.

They were perched on the hill overlooking a valley down below, just at the treeline and still somewhat sheltered from the precipitation from the canopy of trees. This was the last day he could touch her. The last time he could call her _little bird…_ _his_ little bird.

 

“Sandor! What do you think you're doing?” She scolded, but the vein of amusement in her voice couldn't be concealed when he snuck up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his nose in her hair.

“I'm going to miss this.”

It was the most sentimental thing he'd said, he realized, with an uncomfortable thump in his heart. He _should_ tell her that he loved her. He should. But what good would that do? She knew. Surely, she knew.

She reached a hand up and clasped his vambrance, leaning her head into his. “As will I. If could just keep this moment, I would.”

He smiled into her mass of flaming locks; at least she thought the same.

She turned from him then, trailing her fingers down the rest of his armor until they reached his palm, threading through his digits to clutch them. “But Robb's camp is less than a day's ride,” she said, staring out into the valley below, at the veritable city of tents spread out across the whitening field. “And we'll reach it soon enough. I wouldn't trade any of this, Sandor.” A squeeze to his hand, and her eyes were bleary when she looked up at him. “I love you.”

He pulled her to him, an arm around her shoulder, a kiss to her crown. All good things must end. _Such is a dog's fate_ , he reminded himself.

 

* * *

 

 

“Gross,” Arya frowned, turning from her sister and her assumed beau shoving their tongues down each others' throats. _What happened to Lady Proper?_ she wondered, though a stab of jealousy struck her that Sansa had someone to do that with, and not her. She'd hoped for Gendry. Seven hells, she'd been making up fantasies about him since they'd parted ways… But now? Now that he appeared again, he was just the same as she'd left him! All _no, m'Lady,_ and _if you say so, m'Lady_ , and all the things she hated. All the things _he_ knew irked her. Ugh! If she could just pretend she were Arry again… Nymeria groaned in sympathy with her, nosing her hand.

“You just wish that were you,” Edwyn teased from behind her, and she spun around to confront him.

“Shut up!” She remembered he'd said he was leaving to go talk to Robb; that Edwyn would stay and keep them safe on the last leg of their journey, that _she_ was responsible, too. Probably why Sansa wasn't getting into trouble having that dog's hands all over her.

Edwyn laughed, threw up his hands in defense when she threw a punch at him. “Hey! I'm just being honest! Why don't _you_ go find a tree to hide behind and do the same thing?”

“Shut up!” she repeated, swatting at him.

“Hey! Gendry,” Edwyn called over his shoulder, fending off Arya's repeated hits and trying to suppress his laughter. “Get over here, Arya has something to ask you!”

“Seven hells, Edwyn,” Arya hissed under her breath as Gendry set down his work, an curious look on his face.

“Promise I won't tell,” Edwyn winked a blue eye at her as he backed away, leaving her standing there in the falling snow, cheeks uncharacteristically burning with embarrassment. “I mean, not that he'd mind,” he tapped a finger to his temple.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You don't know? Your _favorite_ blacksmith over there,” he enthused, clapping his hands together in mockery of those stupid ladies at court, “is King Robert Baratheon's bastard. Did no one ever tell you?”

“ _What_?” Arya wheezed, wracking her brain for any prior mention of such a fact.

“And if he has his way, King Robb will legitimize him, so...” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at her.

“So he's eligible to marry, is what you're saying.”

The knight nodded in response, a grin plastered to his face. Gendry's head bobbed over his shoulder, the _bastard-_ the word sounded wrong on her tongue, like it was an insult to him- making his way ever closer to her.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she swore under her breath. It wasn't like her to be thinking about such things. But if he was Robert's son… _Seven hells!_ This was Sansa's field of expertise; all the goo and fuss that went along with all of this womanly lady shite.

“M'Lady?” Gendry asked as he approached, wiping his hands of the oil from the armor he'd been tending. “Did you need me?” _Oh, the phrasing…_

She involuntarily looked over at her sister again, Gendry's eyes following her line of sight, a flush of red creeping onto his face. _Did he… did he just blush?_

“M'Lady?”

“And this is where I leave you. Have a lovely time, lad,” Edwyn smiled, clapping a hand on Gendry's shoulder before making his way back to camp.

“Is everything alright?” Gendry asked, genuine concern on his face.

_Oh, fuck it,_ she thought, injecting herself with any bit of courage she could scrounge up, willing her arm to continue on it's trajectory towards the collar of his tunic, the ties of his cloak. And with a bunch of fabric in her hands, and a very confused looking blacksmith trailing behind her, she stormed off in the direction of the nearest, fattest tree.

“Arya, what are you doing?” Gendry demanded from behind her, stumbling over the snow-hidden rocks underfoot.

Satisfactory tree found, she pushed him up against the trunk, grey eyes wild as she formed her words. She was going to have to approach this like a fight if she wasn't going to chicken out of it; _fucking hells_ , the years of dreaming about him climbing on top of her… “Gendry,” she started, more of a statement than she'd intended it to be. She cleared her throat. _Start over_. “Gendry. You know I'm not a Lady.” _No! That wasn't it! Gods damn it!_ She leaned away from him, peered around the tree. No one was paying any mind. Fuck, Sansa and the dog couldn't even be bothered.

Gendry's sight followed hers, taking in the second too long she looked at the scene her sister was making, putting two and two together. Finally, she shifted back in front of him, pursing her lips and trying to figure out what the _hells_ she was even trying to do.

“Gendry, I-”

“Me, too,” he smiled, catching her off guard as much she'd caught him. He reached out to cup her face, pulling her to him. _Yes. That_ was what she had wanted; his lips on hers. So _that's_ what it was like.

Well, hot damn.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my word. It's been a month since I posted!
> 
> A short chapter, but, uh..... yeah.

_Liar._

 

The word sat heavy in his mouth, pinching his tongue like one of those ebony scorpions from the Dornish sands.

 

All this time he'd thought him a good an honorable man, and now there he was, sitting in front of him, telling him that he'd lied the whole time.  _How could he?_ a voice sounded in his head, indignant that after months of traveling together, after whatever friendship seemed to have taken root, that he wouldn't have said anything. 

 

_Because he was protecting her_ , another sounded, the same voice that snuck around his head whispering things about love.  _You would have done the same._

 

_And besides, who would have believed such an insane story_ ?

 

“Clegane?”

 

The younger wolf's voice snapped him out of his inner debate, the expectant look on his face betraying only mild annoyance that he'd missed the question.

 

“Apologies, your Grace.”

 

The King pursed his lips, “It's alright.”  _No it wasn't._ “I'm told that you're not looking for monetary recompense for the safe delivery of my sister?”

 

“No, your Grace.” He shifted in his seat uneasily, wishing he was rather anywhere but across from these two men; preferably in the company of a bottomless flask of Dornish sour.

 

“I find that hard to believe; a man in the employ of the Lannisters for so long. You can't have protected the little lion just out of the goodness of your heart-” He was shot a warning look, halting his tongue as effectively as if he were still a boy. _Some King_. “Apologies.”

 

“To answer your question: no. Especially not at the end of my days in their service. But I assure you, as I assume you've been informed, the only thing I seek is employment in your camp. Perhaps longer if you deem it fit, your Grace.” He looked to the elder man, verifying in silence they'd already discussed it.

 

“I hear you're quite the fighter,” the young wolf observed. “Your reputation for violence precedes you.”

 

“Only as necessary, your Grace.” Gods, had he made the wrong choice? Suddenly, selling himself into the service of another noble family felt like absolutely the wrong thing to do. He'd been free for nigh a year, and now to return to the same thing he'd left… _It's not the same thing,_ he tried to remind himself. 

  
“Have you trained men before, Clegane?”

 

“Aye, in Lannisport and the Capital.”

 

“You come highly recommended; that's for sure. We could use another good man to add to the Northern cause.” He looked to the man beside him, “You'll speak for his loyalties, Father?”

 

Lord Stark nodded, singularly and solemnly. _Aye_.

 

“Right then. Tomorrow morning, seek Hallis Mollen in the guards' ward. He'll give you your assignment.” The young wolf stood, a scrape of the heavy oaken chair beneath him against the cold earth. Sandor nodded, dismissed. “And Clegane, thank you for returning her. You've done us a great service.”

 

“Your Grace,” he inclined. “My Lord.”

 

_Some stray,_ he thought, leaving the grey tent behind him in search of where the wine was kept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, on a personal note: thanks to everyone who shared some sympathy with my morning sickness a while back.... it's all gone now, thankfully! And we found out we're having a girl; Mira Carina (managed to find a name that shared my husband's interest in space- Mira- and a quiet nod to GoT... muahaha).
> 
> Cheers, and hopefully I'll have another out soonish (you know, before the end of the year), so we can hear from Sansa.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Picset](http://its-meggowaffle.tumblr.com/post/154198977265/new-chapter-up-for-the-great-escape)

Well, _that_ was more than she'd seen coming, she thought, as she looked opposite the table from her. Robb sat with his hands clenched together, warring with himself, she could tell; his sister and his pawn. What to do?

The homecoming had been short, abrupt even, as she'd been herded from her tent into that of her eldest brother's. Apparently he'd already been informed of her journey northward; Edwyn, she supposed, had already debriefed him on the finer details, but mercifully it seemed, had left out her relationship with Sandor. She still couldn't figure out why he'd done it. It didn't gain him any points with her brother, except perhaps for saving face.

“You'll be introduced to the Boltons tomorrow,” her brother informed her, hiding behind a stone-faced facade. “I expect you'll be on your best behavior...”

_What does he think of me, to assume that I wouldn't_? Did he think the wilderness had turned her into a heathen like her sister? Of course she would. But she could feel her eyes rolling at him internally; maybe she was less of a lady after all.

“Of course, your Grace.” It felt so odd to call him that. _Your Grace_. She knew it was correct. She was technically his subject. He was technically her King. But he was her brother, too, despite the fact that it didn't feel like it anymore. “If that will be all?” she readied her legs to push back her chair, to flee back to her tent where the air didn't hang oppressively like some damp blanket.

“Yes, that will be all for the two of us,” he motioned his finger between his body and hers, eyes apprehensively darting to the stray standing at the doorway to Robb's inner chambers of the tent. “But there's something else...”

Edwyn pushed off from the wooden supports, arms unfolding from across his chest. “Sansa, there's something I need to confess...”

 

\----

 

_How could she have been so blind?_ she scolded herself, sinking completely into the steaming bathwater her new handmaidens had collected for her.  _How could she have been so_ stupid _?_

_She should have seen it,_ her mind raced, now clear with all the details that had been dumped on her in the past hour. In hindsight it was so clear. 

_Don't be so hard on yourself_ , a raspy voice floated to the surface of her mind. If only she could just sink into him like she was the bathwater, maybe all this would go away.

She should be happy. 

She should be elated.

But all she could muster was dread, embarrassment, self-depreciating scorn at what had been right in front of her the past several moons.

She should have noticed. Had she? Those eyes that had looked so familiar to her when they'd met; well now, she supposed, she knew why. Because she'd seen them before: they were her father's. He hadn't  _worked_ for the Starks, he  _was_ a Stark.  _Household guard_ , she snorted, sending a stream of bubbles to the surface.  _More like the head of the household._

She slithered back up to the surface, resting her head against the sloped wooden edge of the tub.  _And oh, gods_ ,  _why had he let them get away with so much?_ She'd slept in Sandor's tent for nigh a moon, and though he'd protested at first, he'd let them. Surely, he wasn't oblivious. Surely, he'd some inkling of what transpired.

Her mind replayed scenes from the past hour, his face emerging from the back of Robb's tent, Edwyn's just next to him. Two faces she was so familiar with, both of which had apparently lied to her.  _His face_ , just the same as she'd remembered it, though the happy memories had long since faded to be replaced with the last time she'd seen him: up there with Joffrey while she screamed for him to show mercy.  _His face_ , rolling down the steps after Ser Ilyn had swung Ice. 

He'd shown her the scar, pulling at the collar of his tunic to reveal the jaggedly-healed skin. He couldn't speak any more, he'd informed her, sliding her a slip of paper across the table. Robb had been silent. They'd all been silent. 

Arya and her Brotherhood companions had found his body,  e n route to Winterfell after Tywin had released it. And Arya, oh Arya, how convincing she could be when she needed to. She'd convinced their priest to resurrect him. Magic Sansa didn't particularly believe in had returned their father to them. The old gods or the new or those ones from the east had seeped into him to bring him back to life,  and the ways of the First Men had taught him to warg.

Her mind raced to process all the information, all the superstition.  T he centuries of stories and things she'd always chalked up to being old wives tales Nan had entertained them with when they were children.  _It was true_ . 

She ran her hands over her face.  _You mustn't tell any one_ , they'd cautioned.  _No one must know_ .

No, certainly not. 

She pulled herself out of the bathwater, wrapped a sheet around her and crawled into bed. She needed some clarity. Or perhaps she needed a distraction.

_How could she have not known_ ?

_How could she have been so blind?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please pardon Sansa's existential meltdown... 
> 
> Also, this kid is due, um, imminently, so I may not be posting here for a while. Although, who knows? Maybe I'll have some downtime. ;) 3-ish more weeks!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gifset](http://its-meggowaffle.tumblr.com/post/159151919445/new-short-chapter-up-in-the-great-escape)

Sandor's mind was still reeling from the new-found information, and the ale wasn't helping that at all. There in the dark outskirts of the makeshift alehouse the soldiers had constructed; an assembly of log stumps strewn about around a fire in the middle of camp. Wasn't even a shelter for it, just men around the warmth of the flames, getting progressively more drunk even though the snow was slowly watering down their drink.

_How could he have not known?_ He still cursed himself for not picking up on the clues: fucking _Ned Stark_ in front of his nose the whole time, and not an inkling of something afoot. He used to be better. More vigilant. Maybe she'd made him soft.

But hells, if she'd made him soft, he didn't regret it. But now he was part of the ranks again, he'd have to cut back to his old ways. Training. Discipline.

No more nights spent falling asleep with her in his arms.

“This seat taken?” The stray plopped down on the log beside him, drink in hand.

“Didn't know you to be a drinker, Lord Stark.”

“ _Hush_. He's not. And besides, he's back with the King. Final arrangements of the meeting tomorrow.”

Sandor's stomach churned with the prospect: the Boltons were to meet with the King tomorrow morning, claim their princess. It made him sick.

“No need to remind me.”

“Right, sorry about that. He really did mean what he said out there, in the forest, you know. About how you'd have been the better choice.”

Sandor grunted into his drink. Disbelief over some pretty words. _Would have been proud to have a son like you_. What was that even supposed to mean, now knowing who it came from?

“I'm glad you decided to stay,” Edwyn tried.

“Not like to find anything better out here,” Sandor motioned to the empty forest behind them. _Winter is coming_ , the words of her house. Now true, sitting there in the bite of the cold. Not before we all die of frostbite, anyway.”

Edwyn nodded, seemingly unperturbed by the increasingly chillier weather.

“I'll be off then,” Sandor said, tossing the remnants of his ale in the snow. Not like to spend his time with useless talk. Especially not with a pretender.

 

* * *

 

Back in his tent, Sandor tentatively picked at the bandages on his thigh, peeling the fabric away from the healing wound. Sansa wasn't there to do it any more. He must learn to live without her. Not that he was dependent, he reminded himself, through thoughts of the gentle touches she'd bestowed him. _No._

But through the fuzziness of the ale, and the drifting of his mind, the memory of her hands surfaced. The first time she'd tried to repair him, how she seemed caught when she'd first touched his naked skin, sitting there in the canyon lands. How she'd pulled him down to her in the inn's hallway. How he'd stopped her edging closer to where she shouldn't have been. The increasing yearn for her begged attention; maybe he should have let her continue on her path that night.

Maybe her hands would have continued down, while she kissed him in that makeshift shelter. Pine and woodsmoke and the sweet scent of her skin, and she would have wrapped her fingers around him, and he wouldn't have stopped her. And she would have brought him some sweet release, like he worked to obtain now in his tent, and maybe… maybe if she'd let him, he could figure out how to do the same for her.

 

But he opened his eyes, and just the pitch of the canvas stood around him, the sharp sting of winter's winds blowing in through the seams of the tent. And he was alone.

 

* * *

 

She was glad he couldn't see her there, walking through the rows of tents with this icy bastard next to her. _Little bird, chirping your pretty_ words.

If she was of the north, she wasn't sure what he could be; for he _is_ the north, she supposes. Ramsay Snow. Eyes almost the same color as his namesake, hollow and cold. And his conversation topics just as morbid as the winter.

“You like dogs, don't you? _Stark wolves_. That's what's on your sigil, correct?” he slithered to her, and she found herself reminded of two other wormy lips as his form the words; Joffrey.

But she is a lady, and despite how her bones freeze being next to this man, she must make her pleasantries. “Yes, I suppose.” She wished she were a wolf now; she could run. A lifetime next to this man… how could her brother have thrown her under like this?

“My dogs are excellent hunters. I hear yours got itself killed.”

She shuddered at the memory. _Lady, innocent Lady_.

“But no matter. I'll take you hunting when we return to the Dreadfort,” he continued, either unaware or, she supposed more likely, purposefully making her feel uncomfortable. Perhaps he took pleasure in it.

“I look forward to it, my lord,” her courtesies replied for her.

“Do you enjoy hunting, my lady?”

“If it pleases you, my lord,” she swallowed. _If it pleases you, your Grace_. The parallels. Years of minding her words. Of chirping like the bird she was, to find freedom. And to have it snatched away again. She would be vacant again. Another bastard to torment her.

“Perhaps I'll take you hunting after the wedding. Would you like that? My dogs are itching for a challenge.”

_What would they even hunt_ , she wondered, _hare and geese are the only things left about in the snow, and those aren't a challenge._ Not at least for these dogs that he's been praising on about for the past twenty minutes. Though, better the dogs than flaying, she supposes. He'd started out trying to impress her with the _precise_ description of a man flayed, and she'd almost lost her breakfast.

They round the corner close to the training yard, and she can see him there. Her love. The one that could have saved her from this fate, if Robb would have gone for it. But how unlikely for a trueborn Northman's daughter to marry a landed non-knight from the south. She snorted- _how unladylike!_ \- at the thought. That would never happen.

“Did something amuse you, my Lady?” Snow oozes, fake chivalry and ice.

She pulled her eyes from her man in the yards, swinging the sword that she rather wishes would just get shoved through her betrothed.

“No, my Lord. My apologies.” Her hands smooth at her skirt, eyes drifting toward the sky for want of somewhere else to look. Not at the vile creature next to her, not at desired one in the distance. She musn't let on, she thinks. For men have been flayed for less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, long time no post!  
> So, sorry for the long delay, but I've got [this little nugget](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/a3/5a/ba/a35abaf677063c618f3a36b95bf94ef2.jpg) now, and she takes up quite a bit of time! Also, I finished off this chapter in the hospital (admitted yesterday for surgery to have my gall bladder taken out), so I *may* be doped up on Norcos, and not making much sense.... It's been a crazy year.
> 
> Also, thank you, Ryuno_chu, for all the comments. That cheered me up this morning when I turned on my laptop. :))


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus Christo, finally a new chapter!

The whore stooped to pick up her robe from the floor, the slice down her shoulder blade splaying open again mercilessly. She knew the men who'd bought time with her each had their own fetishes, but this one in particular… well, at least he still paid her. It was a steady job, and out here in the Riverlands, there wasn't much to go around come winter-time. Though the pain in her shoulder jabbed at her relentlessly as she made to leave, she reminded herself that she must be courteous. He may be awful, but at least she hadn't starved, for his coin.

 

“Thank you, Lord Bolton. I hope you return soon,” she managed, ducking through the curtains of the tent opening and leaving him to tidy himself up.

 

* * *

 

The cold bit at her cheeks, but she wouldn't have traded it for anything. Winter was ever approaching, and her pack was finally all accounted for. _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,_ her father had told her once. What a gods-send it had been to stumble upon the men designated to take his body back to Winterfell. How lucky to have been travelling with Thoros, who brought him back. She'd killed that day, though it wasn't her first. The Lannister soldiers weren't on her list- how could they be without names- but it had been necessary to regain her father's body. She wasn't going to trust those golden pricks to return him safely.

 

In front of her, the men in the training yard fought each other with great enthusiasm. What did Sansa see in that monster, anyway? He swung his sword well, she woefully admitted, watching as he knocked one of the other soldiers to the ground with a swift hit to his side. He got up, glaring at the Hound as he brushed off his jerkin. But even if he was an excellent swordsman, it didn't make up for killing Mycah.

 

_I could take him_ , she though, crossing her arms and leaning against the railing around the yard. It was warm there, over by the smithy where Gendry had found employment. Her father had warned her not to be around him too much, though she found it difficult not to. He'd been her only friend, really, when she'd left King's Landing. How could she _not?_  
  
“Here,” Gendry said, sidling up to her and placing a knife on the rail in front of her.

 

“What's this?” She picked up the knife, examining the bone handle, fondling the blade. Of course, it was fine. For a Flea Bottom bastard, he'd certainly been fortunate with his smithing apprenticeship. The grey stone at the end of the handle shone even under the clouded sky. “Did you make this?”

 

She knew the answer. “Yes… For you,” he pointed out. “I thought Needle should have a companion.” He smiled a half smile.

 

She didn't know what to say; everything seemed too… too… like Sansa would say. Covered in sickly sweet syrup. Disgusting. “Thanks,” she settled, nudging his elbow with hers. Everything had been odd since that day in the forest, and she hated it. Good as it had felt, she wished she could take back that kiss if it meant things weren't so awkward anymore.

 

She looked up at him, but he watched the soldiers sparring in front of him. He raised his chin to point at the Hound, “Guess he's pretty good, eh?”

 

“I guess,” she conceded. “But it doesn't make him any less of an arsehole.”

 

He smirked thoughtfully, “I remember you telling me about that. Mycah was it?”

 

“Yeah,” she glared daggers across the yard, and her eyes fell on her sister and her new bethrothed as they joined the spectators on the other side of the railing. “I don't trust Ramsay.”

 

“Me either, but it's not my place.”

 

Arya grunted. Wasn't hers, either, but maybe she could talk to her father about it. Much as she didn't get along with her sister, really, and as much as she hated the Hound, at least she didn't have a sense of dread around him. There was something off about Ramsay, though. Plus… _a Bolton?_ Robb must have really needed the extra numbers to consider marrying her off to a family that boasted _flaying_ people. Even _she_ didn't wish her list-members that awful of a fate. _Alright_ , she conceded. _Maybe Joffrey_.

 

She could see Sansa's eyes sliding over to the soldiers, watching the Hound a little too long. And Ramsay noticed, too. Rolling the handle of the blade between her palms, “She's going to get herself in trouble if she's so blatant.”

 

Gendry hummed his agreement. “Maybe you should say something to her.”

 

Arya scoffed, angled her eyebrows up at him. “What makes you think she'd listen?”

 

“Because she's your sister, and she loves you.”

 

“And what do you know of that, bastard?” she teased, wishing she could reel back the words as soon as they left her mouth.

 

Gendry looked down at her, “I know something of it.”

 

* * *

 

For fuck's sake, he just needed some rest. Sandor tossed on his pallet again, thick woolen blanket twisting around his legs like a vice. He couldn't anymore. It'd been a full gods-damned moon since he'd gotten decent sleep. Since she'd been next to him.

 

He rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes; he _had_ to stop thinking about her. Earlier in the training yards, it had been almost impossible to ignore her. How could he, anyway? Gods, if he'd thought her beautiful while she was covered in filth from their travels, he would have to be blind not to acknowledge her now in her full regalia, all grey velvet and dainty fucking crown on her head. He pushed into his sockets, like it would erase her. _Gods damn it._

 

_Fuck it_ , first oath he'd ever broken, one to himself that he made many moons ago. He could probably find some whore willing, for enough coin, to lay next to him.

 

* * *

 

The familiar smell of the whore's quarters hit him like an anvil, even walking up to them, and it instantly dredged up memories of piss-drunk nights in the capital. It twisted his stomach, the thought that he'd sunk so low again.

 

“How much for a few hours, girl?” He asked the lone wretch in front of their tents. _Shouldn't be out here in the cold_.

 

“Silver stag,” she replied sheepishly, adjusting a thin shawl over her shoulders. _Fucking war dragging prices higher._ He'd never have paid so much before, but he was desperate for rest.

 

He fished one out from his coin purse, held it out to her between his fingers. “Not here.”

 

She took it, nodded silently. He squinted up at the falling snow as he led her back to his tent. What was he doing?

 

Gracelessly, he flopped down on the pallet once they'd returned, the girl hesitating at the entrance of the tent, hands clutched still at her shawl. “M'lord?”

  
  
“Not a lord.” _Would it ever stop?_

 

“Don't you wish to…?” She motioned in his general vicinity, implying perhaps he should disrobe.

 

“Just sleep, girl. You're off the hook for anything else for the night.”

 

She crept over to him, mindful not to look at his face. _Same shite_. Gods, he wanted Sansa. The pallet barely moved under her weight as she sat on it, and he stared at the canvas of the tent as she pulled her ragged clothing off. She sucked in a breath, probably steeling herself for a night with a monster, and he risked a glance in her direction. He'd only seen Sansa of late, and barely at that, and gods how he wanted to retain the memory of her beneath him. But may hap he must do this in order to move on. Could he ever, though?

 

The girl laid down along the edge of the bed, as far from him as she could, her back to him and his fucking face. A long, angry cut and several bruises painted her back an ugly shade of purple.

 

“Who did this to you?” He lazily ran a finger along the edge of the cut, not ungently.

 

“I'm sorry I displease you, m'lord,” she made to gather her shawl, try to pack it up for the night. Looking for a way out.

 

“Who did this to you?” he repeated, stilling her with a hand on her shoulder.

 

“It's not a bother, m'lord.”

 

“Stop calling me that and answer me.” He raised himself on an elbow, turning to her, a sinking pit in his stomach forming at what she was hiding. “Who did this to you?”

 

“I can't say, m'- I'm sorry.” She pulled her shawl over the wound, chanced a look at his face. “If it displease you, I'll-”

 

“Girl. Answer me.”

 

She hung her head, and it was all he could do to hear her. “Ramsay Bolton.”

 

* * *

 

_Why did she have to be on the other side of the camp?_ He knew the answer: to be far from _him_. Lord Eddard had done that on purpose.

 

The ever-falling snow smacked him in the face as he sprinted to her, foot falls heavy in the silence of night. Her tent was still aglow at his approach, two shadows in the candlelight.

 

“Sansa,” he heaved, against his better judgment, as he ripped open the curtains over the entrance.

 

Her head snapped around in alarm, taking in his form, arms braced against the supports of the door, hair plastered to his face with snow melt. “Sandor!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long spacing in between updates. I've been working on trying to figure out the in-betweens of what I'd already written and the end of the story. I've had the end in my head since I started writing this beast, but I've kind of been at a stand still as of late.
> 
> That, and the kid is teething, sooo....


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, howdy y'all. Sorry for the long delay in getting a new chapter out. I could make many excuses, the least of which being that my computer decided to take a crap on me at the beginning of the month. Won't start up any more, and even my techie husband has little hope for it. So, for now, using the computer at work, which is dicey at best, and I can't even save my work except for on AO3. Hopefully you enjoy a little snippet, and I can get back soon, but I don't have much hope for that, honestly. Don't worry, eventually, I WILL finish this... Jesus Christo, I've been working on this beast for 2 years! I want it to be done! I have other stories I want to write! Other long ones! Anyway, enjoy, and savor.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, taking a tentative step towards his heaving form in the doorway.

 

He glanced around her tent, noticing her sister planted squarely in the middle of her bed, legs folded up beneath her. "You're not safe," he said, pushing his hair out of his face. Though his fingers itched to pull Sansa to him- she was right there!- he forced himself to err on the side of caution and stay planted where he was. He never knew the little wolf pup to be a tattle, but who knew what she'd pass on to Robb? "You shouldn't marry the bastard."

 

"And what makes you say this?" She'd started to reach her hand out to him, his arm aching for her touch where her hand would have fallen, but she let it drop to her side.

 

"He's-" he stopped himself. How would he explain his knowledge of this to her? That his information on the matter had come from some whore? "I don't trust him."

 

"Neither do I. And you don't trust _anyone_. What makes Ramsay different?"

 

He thought for a moment, recalling all the times the bastard had directed their path to drift by the training yard; all the times he'd noticed Ramsay watching her as she studied Sandor in the yard. "I think he knows about us," he settled, casting a wary eye on the wolf pup behind her. "And that can't be good for you."

 

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Arya pitched in from her perch on the bed. "Seven hells, Sansa, you're not exactly sly about staring at him." She made a fake-wretching sound as she casually spun a dagger in her hand. Sansa turned to her sister, clearly mouthing something at her, though Sandor couldn't tell what it was. "What?" she defended, "Even Gendry noticed, and he hardly notices anything."

 

"Well, there's not a lot to do about that now, is there? We're to wed within the fortnight, Sandor," she said, turning back to him and looking expectant.

 

"And besides," the wolf pup piped up, "why'd you come running over here to tell her that? Just now. In the middle of the night. When it's snowing out." She smirked, "And only in your breeches and tunic. Where'd you come from, anyway?"

 

Sansa took a moment to survey him, and he watched as the cogs turned in her mind. "Yes, where _did_ you come from?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest. "You wouldn't be running over here right now if it were just that."

 

He ran through the responses; none of them were good. And he wouldn't lie. "He cut a girl. Beat her," he said, softly, watching as her face turned.

 

"A girl," she repeated, her face turning from porcelain to stone.

 

"A whore," the wolf bitch supplied unhelpfully from behind her.

 

"Is that true?" Even he, big dumb oaf that he felt like now, could hear the hurt in her voice. He couldn't bring himself to properly answer her, looking at the crush on her face, so he nodded. Just once, and barely at that. _Coward._ She took a moment, mulling over her responses. 

 

"Ha! I knew it," Arya seemingly cackled from the bed, but her sister shot her down.

 

"Arya, we'll talk tomorrow."

 

Her face instantly sobered, her lips pressing thin. "What, was what I was saying not important anymore? I was _trying_ to tell you the same thing, Sansa," she argued, even though she'd unfolded herself from the bed.

 

"We'll talk tomorrow, little sister." Sansa punctuated the sentence, as if to say _do as I say._

 

"Fine, well, the dagger's there if you need it." She placed it next to her pillow, glinting in the candlelight, and glared at Sandor. "Even if you don't have need of _me_ right now."

 

"Thank you, Arya."

 

"Thank Gendry, he's the one who made it," she grumbled. "And you- we're all watching you, so don't fuck up." She pushed past Sandor's frame as she exited the tent, leaving him standing there feeling rather awkward.

 

Silence fell between them, and an uncomfortable one at that. Not like before, in the forests, on the road, when he could just listen to her heart beat. Now all he could hear were her slow, even breaths, disappointment ringing louder than anything. He _wanted_ to step toward her, put his arms around her. Apologize. But why? Was he supposed to be some slave to her for the rest of his life? He kidded himself, _no_.

 

It was an eternity before she broke the silence, looking pointedly at the weaving of the carpet in her tent. "How bad was it?" Her voice was quiet, reserved.

 

"Does it matter? He hurt her," he rasped, willing her to look at him.

 

"How bad," she repeated, head still declined.

 

He steeled himself for her response, taking a deep breath and letting his answer fall out all at once. "I only saw the half of her. It was bad." He added indignantly, "And that should be enough." Was his word not good enough for her now? Or was she just seeking sordid details?

 

"It _is_ enough. I only wish to know what I'm getting in to." Finally, those blue eyes met his. "It's my duty, Sandor. I must."

 

"You're not safe with him, little bird." _Gods,_ to touch her, push back that tress that had fallen out of place.

 

"I know I'm not. You don't think I _know_? Both of you!-" she motioned at Arya's now absent form. "You both think I've got my head in the clouds! You don't think I'm aware of how _awful_ he is?" Her voice pitched higher, a dam suddenly threatening to break. " _I know,_ Sandor. _I know._ All he speaks of are his hounds and the people he's flayed, as if it were something to brag about. And how terrible is that- that he _brags_ about doing such things! I know exactly what I'm getting in to, Sandor, so you needn't worry yourself about me." The edges of her eyes were wet, though she clearly held back hear tears. Worst liar in Kings Landing, he'd told her once.

 

"Where's this coming from?" he asked tentatively, as if trying to approach a startled fawn. But he knew better. She sniffed, barely audible, tightened her arms across herself.

 

"Don't you know?" He did; he knew _exactly_ where this was coming from. 

 

"Sansa, you can't expect me to wait around forever," he took a step toward her, and she flinched. _She flinched_.

 

"I don't."

 

"Then what are you angry about?"

 

"Can't I be angry?" she cut, tilting her head ever so slightly in defiance.

 

"Of course you can, but it's not going to do any good to not have level head with this arsehole." He worked to close the distance between them, slowly, watching her as her ire thawed just the slightest bit. "Your sister gave you a dagger. What does she expect you to do with it?"

 

"She told me not to forget to use the pointy end." The corner of her mouth tugged up almost imperceptibly as she stole a glace at it, sitting innocently on the bed. "I'll kill him if I need to," she added, all seriousness in her voice.

 

"Alright then." It was his turn to cross his arms, now after managing to leave only a foot between them. "Show me."

 

"I don't want to."

 

"Nobody ever wants to, little bird. Not unless you're Gregor." He leaned over, picked up the blade and handed it to her. "Show me."

 

It was clumsy and nigh useless in her hand. A lot could be attributed to the heat of the moment; she could probably manage some damage if she needed to, but she should probably know what in the seven hells to do with it if she were put in that situation. _Gods,_ he thought, knowing that the possibility was more than likely. He once said he'd kill anyone that tried to hurt her, and he meant it. But how would he know?

 

"Little bird, you're only going to get yourself killed more quickly if you handle it like that," he said, wrapping a hand around hers as she held the dagger. "Here," he drew their hands up to his neck. He tilted his head up to the pitch of the tent, neck exposed to the cold metal. "Slice or stab, whatever you can manage. It's almost a sure kill." When he looked down at her again, her eyes were solemn, staring at the blade, at his pulse against it.

 

"I don't want to do this with you."

 

"But you must learn."

 

"Then Arya or my father will teach me." She dropped her hand, his along with it, tossed the dagger to the floor. "Not you."

 

"Sansa, you're not safe," he tried to underscore.

 

"You need to leave." She clenched her jaw, took a step back.

 

"What?" Incredulousness tinged his voice. _Don't shut me out_.

 

"You heard me. You need to leave." Her arms were folded across her chest. He'd thought... oh, what did he think? That she was just going to leap to him with open arms? After coming to her straight from his bed- warm from the whore he'd brought to it? He took a step back, waiting to call her bluff. But she didn't budge, just kept her expression steely, willing him to leave.

 

"Little bird." He wouldn't plead. She wouldn't have that power over him; he wouldn't let her. But he could give her a chance to change her mind. Not kick him out.

 

"Good night, Clegane." Her voice was cold, and so was the night as he backed out into it, leaving her there to simmer in her tent.

 

"Little bird," he said, as the curtain across her doorway slid closed.

 

* * *

 

 

She'd not seen him in a sennight, and she'd made sure to steer clear of the training yards, as her sister had suggested. She wasn't stupid, not any more. She'd known Ramsay had watched her. But maybe she'd been tempting him. See what he'd do. See if her suspicions were true. She knew about the whores, but it had stung more than she'd anticipated finding out that Sandor had been with one. Long ago, she had told herself that she would need to move on, but reality was that in practice, it was much more difficult to do.

 

So it was nights like this that she missed him terribly, when she was thinking about betrayal and beatings and the fate she would suffer at the hands of the Boltons. What her dear brother had done to further assure the Northern cause. She was Tully, her mother's daughter, and she would do what she needed to; family, duty, honor. But that didn't make it any better. She wished, may hap, that she were still in Kings Landing, and a heavy woolen cloak could fall over her shoulders when the cruelness was coming down on her. But not now. Not when she'd settle into her new home.

 

Her thoughts swam furiously around in her head, distancing her from the cold air in her tent, keeping her planted squarely in the future and not in the present. The present, where, through her haze of wondering, she started to hear clangs of metal from all around, the sharp, loud voices of orders being barked, and the sudden roaring onslaught of chaos rushing back to her. _What in seven heavens was going on?_   She grabbed the dagger Arya had given her from under her pillow, wrapped her heavy fur cloak around her, and peered out of her tent.

 

All around, men were clamoring out of their tents. Some had managed to get parts of their armor on, others still in their tunics, swinging madly at soldiers on horses galloping through camp. Red and gold. Red and gold and blood and snow, men running and falling around her. She clutched the dagger to her, _what was happening_? An attack in the night.

 

A hand wrapped around her arm from behind, and she spun around, trying to force herself to present the dagger at the throat of her would-be attacker. But it was Ramsay, his face inches from her.

 

"Come, Lady Sansa, you're not safe." He shook the dagger from her hand, urged her to follow him, almost dragging her when she hesitated. "Lannisters. We're under attack," he supplied unhelpfully. _Where was Sandor?_ _Arya? Robb, her father, anyone._

 

From out of nowhere, he produced a horse, heaved her up onto it and swung up behind her. They were out of camp before she realized where they were headed, her eyes ripping from one scene to another, searching for anyone's faces that she recognized in the fray. "Where are you taking me?" she turned, taking in the bloodless face behind her, thinking it odd that he'd gotten all the way across camp without so much as a drop on him.

 

"To safety," he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, the color of the sky or the certainty of winter.

 

"But where?"

 

He wouldn't answer, just kept directing the horse further out of camp. She wished she had the dagger as her stomach churned.

 

Finally, they reached the top of a hill, in the fringes of the forest, looking down at the camp and the chaos. She searched, strained her eyes looking for her family. Ramsay was eerily silent behind her, and she swung down from the horse to distance herself from him. She couldn't see any one she recognized. Too far away and too much going on, and she found her feet trying to propel her towards the tents catching on fire, the writhing mass of men and metal and blood. He caught her arm again, "Best not, Lady Sansa. You're much safer up here, with me." He smiled, his pale face reflecting the moonlight, almost the same color. Her spine shivered, and she was all but helpless to do anything up there on the hill, while men died below her.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I do this to myself? I know I hate battle scenes... please be gentle in your reviews.
> 
> Also, of note: I don't remember what chapter it was that someone commented that there aren't knights in the North. So, uh, I didn't know that. So, for the sake of me not having to create some kind of elaborate back story as to why Edwyn's a knight, but he's Northern, and all that, let's just pretend that there _are_ knights in the North. ;)

Up on the lookout of the hill, Sansa watched helplessly as chaos erupted beneath her. Her eyes scanned the soldiers relentlessly, looking for anyone familiar. Oh, to have come this far and stand to lose everything again! Her heart couldn't bear it. And kept was she, by the icy fingers of the Bolton bastard, from running to help. Her gut clenched every time she thought of how she should have reacted;  _should_ have held on better to her dagger,  _should_ have used the opportunity to stab Ramsay. No one would have known in the morning that it had been her.

For the heavens' sake,  _where_ was everybody? She could hardly make out the layout of the camp through the newly-lit fires, tents catching flame as one torch-lit canvas caught another. 

"You have to let me down there!" she pleaded, "I have to find my family!" Tears had started running down her cheeks, hot and angry.

"I already told you," he soothed down at her from his mount, "That's not a good idea. I wouldn't want anything happening to you, my lady." His icy eyes reflected the flames behind her. He was right; she knew it. But how could she just stand here?

"Aren't  _you_ going to do anything?" She folded her arms over her chest, perhaps as a way to keep herself together, torn as she was between the logic of staying put and her heart pulling her down the hill.

He just scoffed, his wormy lips twisting hideously. "And leave you unprotected up here? I think not."

Sickeningly, she wished she had stabbed him when she'd had the chance.

* * *

 

_Where the_ fucking hells  _was she?!_ Sandor had been cutting through the men charging at him for the last half hour, barely making any progress in getting to her tent. He'd actually managed to drift off to sleep when he'd first heard the bastards entering camp. They'd come in the night, cunts that they were,  _whoever_ they were. Lannisters, looked like, by the armor. But he'd yet to see a face he recognized, though he knew at least most of the men that should have been leading such an attack. 

A soldier swung at his side, and Sandor turned in time to let the blade strike the hard metal at the back of his armor. He spun around, swinging back at the green boy stupid enough to take him on. He truly never did tire of the satisfying crunch of bone as he sliced into his ribcage. He'd once told the little bird that killing was the sweetest thing there was. He'd waited for a battle, hadn't he? Thought how good it would feel to wet his sword again? And now, the only thing he could think about was finding a way out of this mess so he could see to her safety. 

Another soldier was pushed into him from someone else's parry, and he pushed the boy back to stumble into the fights around him. One made the unfortunate mistake of surging him, receiving a blow through the shoulder. Really, would these fucking cunts ever learn not to pick the big fucker to take on?

Slowly, and with much effort chopping through all this armor (his blade was getting dull from it all), he made progress toward her tent. 

He yelled her name above the the fighting, throat hoarse from the effort and the smoke, hoping against anything that she was still alive and safe, somehow. Flames flanked him on either side, and these fucking gnats kept at him, and he slogged through blood and ash and still couldn't get to her. He could feel the cold sweat, the real sweat on him from the flames, could feel the fear rising in him as the flames drew closer. Could feel his feet falter in their path as he saw the canvas of her tent catch aflame. His eyes grew round, the sound of the fighting died away, and in that moment, there was only the realization that  _she was in there_ ,  _burning_ , and he would have to be, too. He could see the coals being pressed to his face, right there in front of him, could feel the searing of flesh and smell the horror. And he was being pressed, pressed, crushed into them. He couldn't breathe. But  _he was dead, he was dead, he was dead._

* * *

 

Finally, she saw him, the tallest one amongst all the others; fighting his way through all the soldiers rushing him, fighting other opponents, twisting and writhing with blood and metal and flame. He cut a path through them, parting a sea. Making a bee-line for where she should have been. And she saw as her tent picked up the flames of its neighbor, watched in horror as Sandor stopped in his tracks, his eyes obviously on the same thing hers were on. She watched with a painful clench in her stomach as he was bumped into, stupified by the flames, knocked down and underfoot.  

_Get up,_ she willed.  _Get up, for the gods' sake. Get up,_ she broke.

But her screams were swallowed up by the clamor below. She closed her eyes against it.  _Not this._ Why did this have to happen? To have come all this way-

But wait. She heard it; some faint kind of growl. And there was a swell of bodies being heaved, men tossed from where she'd seen Sandor disappear below the tide. He swung madly at all of them, fought a swathe through them until he charged through to her tent. 

 

* * *

 

But she wasn't there. His adrenaline was through the roof, lungs heaving in the stinging-hot, smoke-filled air, and she  _wasn't there_. 

"Clegane!" he heard through the clash of metal all around him. Edwyn was backing toward him, swinging at his opponent as he fought not to trip over the rubble. "Have you found her?" 

"No," he yelled back, joining the stray's fight and hacking off the arm of the soldier, as the man clutched helplessly at his now-exposed shoulder in bewilderment.

"We haven't been able to find her anywhere," he managed, a lull in the stream of attacks for the moment. "Arya and Robb are on the other side of camp. I'm afraid I... well, I didn't make it, so to say," he grimaced. 

"Aye, but you're still here," Sandor scanned around them for any trace of her.

"I've been that way," Edwyn said, motioning whence he came, "and I'll continue on ahead. Arya and Robb are looking for her best they can the other side of camp. There's not much left to cover that we haven't already."

"Stick together, then." Sandor pushed a soldier back as he was knocked into them, the battle coming back to them in a rush. 

* * *

 

The moon was high overhead as the battle finally died down, a smoldering ruin and exhausted Northern soldiers settling onto whatever they could to rest. Edwyn had brought Sandor, much to his protest that he should still be looking for the  _little bird_ , back to regroup with King Robb and the others, meeting together over the ruin of the king's war table. 

"Strategically, we're fucked," a great big fellow they called the Greatjon boomed as he spread his hands out at the mess of the camp. "We've lost over half our men.  _Half!_ "

"I know," King Robb sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "but we can't just sit here licking our wounds, we must-" He looked up, a single horse riding toward them through the rubble, two riders atop it. "Sansa!"

The others turned, and Sandor instinctively lurched forward, hand on the hilt of his sword, but a strong arm barred his movement. Edwyn shook his head,  _you can't_. 

Her brother helped her down, turning his questioning to the bastard still on the horse. "Where did you find her? We looked all over."

"Oh, I kept her safe up on the hill over there," he pointed to the spot. "Didn't want anything to happen to my lady bride, you see." He looked like the cat who swallowed the canary, and Sandor's stomach churned at the thought.  _He'd kept her safe._

"I don't know how I could thank you."

Ramsay dismounted, motioning for a squire a few yards away to take the reins. "Oh, no need. But I think we may have something to offer." He smirked, and Sandor was reminded of that cruel little blonde twat he'd watched all those years. Turning, he addressed the man who'd silently been standing on the outskirts of the meeting, "Father?"

Sandor listened, feeling infinitely out of place amongst a strategy meeting of Northern lords, as Lord Bolton explained that their forces were still at the Dreadfort. Not enough to replace those they'd lost, but enough to provide a counter-attack. He'd yet to pledge them until the marriage was sealed, and until he had some guarantee from the King that his bastard- perhaps his only potential heir- would be legitimized. And though he yearned to interject- pound his fist against something hard and loud, to stop them from doing something stupid, Sandor stood silent, his fist clenched around the pommel of his sword, as a plan unfolded.

She would marry on the morrow. The Boltons would march their men south post-haste. Then they would all march to the Lannister army. The only option, King Robb had sighed. Didn't he know better? Didn't he know it would be a mistake?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just to make things, you know, more complicated: Edwyn is now just Ned. I suppose there's some Edwyn floating around in his head, yes, but Ned's body is no longer with us. I'm not sure what I'll call him from here on out, but know that if I use either, it's in reference to Ned in Edwyn's body. Hokay?


	43. Chapter 43

"Don't you trust my judgment, father?" Ramsay grinned, that twist of his mouth that turned most peoples' blood. "I've gotten us this far."

Roose looked at his son from across the salvaged tent, eyes cold and unreadable as they ever were. "I'm letting your little game play out. Don't mistake this for me trusting you," he coolly corrected. "And don't forget your place, either."

"My Lord," Ramsay added, an ill-hearted shallow bow for flourish. "Clegane is one of the best fighters I've seen this far South; you should have seen him cutting through those men. Truly remarkable."

"And this explains why he must join our forces to rebel against the Lannisters?"

"Well, yes, don't you see? If it happens in a skirmish, it's easy enough to chalk it up to a battlefield death. It can be explained away, if she asks, my Lord."

"I don't see why you don't insist upon checking that she is still a virgin; one of our own people could do it. At least, if you're so certain there was something between them."

"It doesn't matter; I would kill her babe if it weren't mine, anyway. And besides, my Lord: I like my whores broken in." He met his father's eyes, ice to ice in the dead of night.

* * *

 

A mere few hours. She thought she had more time. Sansa wrung her hands like some kind of helpless girl, the one she used to be in Winterfell, the one she thought she'd shed somewhere along their journey. The problem was that she always thought there would be more time. But now... now it would be final, and in only a few hours. Set aside the fact that she always thought her wedding would be something of more splendor, have more  _thought_ than just being thrown together within a day. Set aside the fact that she was marrying a  _Snow_.

It hadn't settled well in her after Sandor had left that night. She shouldn't have acted like that to him. Didn't she love him?  _Yes,_ she tried to remind herself,  _and that's exactly why I did it._ She couldn't very well let herself keep harboring this flame if she were to, so imminently, belong to someone else. But the more she thought on it, the more her stomach twisted, until she excused herself from her newfound shared tent with Arya, heading across camp to where she knew him to be rooming with several other soldiers.

Those left after the attack had scavenged what they could, piecing together what few tents remained. Even the Lords were sharing tents among their family; she was with Arya, and her brother and father were in another. Nymeria had paced anxiously at the entrance before she finally settled down outside of their tent, on guard for any more threats, and she stared at her as Sansa walked past. _Not her charge._

Soon, she stood outside his tent, her dutiful guard ducking inside to retrieve Sandor. She pulled her cloak close, the furs softly rubbing against her cheek.  _Winter is coming,_ she squinted up at the sky, against the snow flakes, and waited for his form to emerge from the canvas.

He was still covered in blood. A terror, even in the moonlight. Cinder and ash, stone in his face, and her heart hammered at the sight of him. She'd never get over that, that feeling of flip-flop her stomach did at the sight of him, at the thought of his hands on her. But it would not longer be; couldn't be. She willed herself, rather unsuccessfully, to quiet the feeling. He took a step toward her, and she motioned for her guard to leave them some space. 

She sucked in a breath, but-

"You can't be here, Lady Sansa," he said, wearily, aware of his surroundings and those that could hear him. So that's how it would be.

"I came to apologize," she tried. "For the other night."

She watched the muscles in his jaw working, biting back a response. "I shouldn't have left things like that," she explained, wishing she could take that night back. He'd only come to warn her, and what had she done? Turned him away because of the thought of some whore's hands on him. "You'd only come to help."

"Aye, well, doesn't seem to have done much good." He furrowed his brow at her, looked past her face to avoid eye contact. "You'll be wed in a days' time."

"You know there isn't anything I can do about that."

"I know, little bird." His eyes were still distant, trying very hard to be unseeing as she took a tentative step closer to him. Her guard had turned his back to give them privacy, though she knew that privacy was a farce. "Why are you here?"

"I don't want to leave things how they are. I don't want this pit in my stomach over the thought of it." She reached for his hand, but he moved to rest it on the pommel of his sword, out of reach. "Please?"

"Lady Sansa," he eyed the guard. "What do you expect to come of this?"

She found herself reverting back to her old ways, of the days when she'd pass him in the hallways of the Red Keep. Courtesies and empty words and things that altogether felt inappropriate now. "I only wished to voice my apologies, my _Lord_ ," she bit. That got his eyes to meet hers. 

"And I heard them. Will that be all?" He took a step back toward his tent, further away from her and she felt like reaching out to him, grabbing on to his armor, dragging him to her. Make him understand that she couldn't leave them like this.

"Sandor," she breathed, and she felt her heart starting to break, her anger rising that he would do this to her. "Don't make me beg. A lady doesn't beg."

Flint flashed in his eyes then, and he grabbed a hold of her arm, pulled her to the far side of the tent with a wayward glace at her guard. "What do you expect me to do, _Lady_ Sansa?" He hissed, leaning down to look her in the eye, in the shadow of seclusion. 

She shook her head, closed her eyes. Felt the tears, unbidden, welling up behind her lids. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want to leave us like this, either, little bird." He was still hunched down to her, she could feel his breath, warm against her skin and the freeze of winter air. "But what choice do I have? It's better to leave it like this; a clean break. If it will settle you, fine; I accept your apology. But you must go." He peered around the edge of the tent for her guard. 

"Will you come to the wedding, at least? I don't think I could bear it without you." She felt silly, some little girl needing support, but she wouldn't go. Not until she fixed things, at least a little. And that's what he'd been, wasn't it? All these moons? Support. How was she supposed to find a replacement, or do it on her own so quickly? She wished, not for the first time, she could be more like her Lady mother; strong. 

"There's preparations to be done before we march. The King has requested that I lead a section of the men."

"Oh?" She'd not been privy to that, and an unease settled in her at the thought of it. He was leaving, and to war no less! Would she ever see him again? The tears she'd been trying to restrain burst from their dam, leaving frozen tracks in their wake. "When do you leave?" she managed.

"Little bird," a rasp of steel and stone there in the snow, broken. Finally, he reached out a hand to her, cupped her elbow, like it was all he could do to keep from pulling her to him. "Don't do that, now." Who was he trying to soothe?

"You'll come back." She'd meant it to assure herself, but it came out more of a demand. 

"Aye, little bird, of course I will." He seemed so sure, but how could he be? Where were they even  _going?_  

She looked at his hand, the one still there on her elbow, "Don't leave me here alone."

"You're not; you have your sister, and the King," he lowered down to her ear to whisper, "and your father. You don't need me here."

He stayed there, not even an inch from her, and she could feel his warmth, and smell him (though there had been better times for that, she admitted), and she took the opportunity to turn into him. "Of course I do." Her hand sought his face, and she kept him to her, turned his face into hers so she could kiss him. One last time, if that's what it was. And it wasn't like the first, tentative and slow, or those after, filled with love and discovery and passion. It was sad, and she could feel her tears against his cheek, and a wetness from him that could have been his own. But she wouldn't have traded it. She savored the feeling of his lips on hers, the bumpy skin of his scars, the taste of his kiss, soaked with her tears.

She broke it, held his forehead to hers. "Come back to me."

 

 


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyoooo. Long time no see. Sorry this is such a short chapter, but I bet you know what's coming, and it needed one of its own. Hopefully that'll be done before, you know, 2019.

Sansa picked at the end of her sleeve and stared blankly out of the window of the cell- _chamber,_ she sharply reminded herself- that had been assigned to her. She’d been waiting for the gods knew how long, her heart hammering in her chest and her dread sinking further down her spine at the thought of her oncoming marriage.

Soon enough, she would be standing on the dais, given away by her brother, the King in the North, to some ice-cold bastard from a house she hadn’t even seen present Winterfell in ages. She thought that might be the part that sickened her the most. Not, primarily, that it wasn’t the love of her life that she was getting married to. Not even his terrible personality. But the fact that the Boltons hadn’t made an appearance in Winterfell since before she as even born. How invested in its well-being could they be if they hadn’t made themselves more involved?

Regardless of the inner workings of her mind, or perhaps because of them, the snow started to beat against the thin window even harder, a strong wind whipping up the flurries that had accumulated on the ledge.

She sighed, and smoothed down the wrinkles on her skirt as she heard a quiet tapping at her door.

“My Lady?” a servant called from the other side. “They’ll have you in the great hall now, if you please.”

 

She didn’t.

 

* * *

 

There wasn’t much more that he could do to help pick up the remnants of the destroyed camp. Nothing he hadn’t already done, anyway. And most of the poor sods that were left were readying themselves for a night of merriment before they went off to fight someone else’s war. A celebration, if it could be called that.

Sandor, on the other hand, had a different reason to drink tonight, and he would have started already if there had been enough wine. No, he had to save it. At least until he heard the raucous cheers and partying coming from inside the Twins. Then the deed would be done, and she’d be wed to another man. His stomach churned at the thought of it. He’d been trying to _stop_ thinking about it for that very reason the gods only knew how long ago, but it was no use. Mayhap when she was carted back off to the Dreadfort would she finally fade from his mind.

 

* * *

 

_Oh gods, she didn’t want to be here._ She felt like she would throw up, right there in front of all those people. Ramsay stood in front of her, at the end of a long aisle of Freys, and some people who must have been Tully if their hair was any indication.

Robb took her hand, tucked it around his elbow. “You’ll be alrgiht, Sansa,” he leaned in to whisper to her. It was the first comforting thing she’d remembered him saying in a while. But it didn’t make it true.

She took a step forward, anyway.

 

* * *

 

He needed to get out of this fucking camp with all of these Northerners. He’d never really seen Northmen so happy, but it must have been the alcohol in them. He patted Stranger’s neck, tucked a wine skin into the saddle. “Let’s get out of here, old boy.”

 

* * *

 

_Oh gods, Sansa, keep it together_! She could feel the bile rising in her throat again as she played back the memory of his disgusting lips on hers. _Man and wife_ , she repeated, Lord Walder Frey pronouncing them on the dais instead of a Septon, or a Maester, even. He’d insisted on doing it. Got some kind of kick out of it, she presumed. And now one of his daughters led her up the stairs, back to her chambers, while a revelry went on below them. Ramsay had wanted to _seal their marriage_ , as he had so ineloquently put it, as soon as was possible. He was a newly minted Bolton, now, thanks to her, and, she supposed, he wanted to get his legacy started promptly. Her skin crawled at the idea.

 

But it was no longer an idea. It was reality. And as the Frey daughter turned the iron handle to the heavy oaken door, Sansa took one long, sobering breath before stepping into her marriage chamber to wait for her husband.

 

* * *

 

The wind cut sharply against his cheeks, and he was glad that the Stray – _Lord Stark_ , he reminded himself – had seen to it before the ruining of the camp to have a winter cloak made for him. He pulled the collar of fur closer around his neck, steering Stranger up the hill on the back side of camp, away from the Twins. From up there, he’d be far enough away, he hoped, not to hear the cheering or laughter; to just see the flickering torches as they tried to stay lit against this winter’s wind. Stranger whinnied, snapping him out of his trance. Perhaps he knew his master’s thoughts too well, for they were both arseholes, in the end, and neither one of them wanted to stay and join the merriment like the rest.

 

They crested the hill, and if it had been any other time, mayhap with Sansa pressed up against him in the saddle like she used to be; it could have been a beautiful sight. True, the wind howling in from the north took away some of the splendor, but the icy blue of the early evening light, the snow growing deeper underfoot… the… the… he blinked, tried to focus his eyes through the haze of snow particles, what the seven hells was that?

 

Faintly, just faintly in the next valley below, he could make out hordes of soldiers. Pink flags whipped in the wind, displaying their house proudly against the white snow. _Boltons_. Hundreds of them in neat little rows, ready for an attack.

 

He yanked hard on Stranger’s reins, reeling him back around. _He must warn them_.

 

* * *

 

Surely, he would have been here by now. Sansa sat on the ceremonial featherbed in her shift, shivering against the cold in the room. The stone walls offered no heat, and the tiny fireplace barely spared any heat on her side of the room. There weren’t any chairs, or else she would have moved one over by now. So she pulled at one of the furs on the bed, and wrapped it around herself, wishing that it was scratchy white wool instead of the soft bear fur around her shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate comments, critical or otherwise, that help me improve upon my writing. Let me know what you think! How'd you like it? :D
> 
> Edit 1/1/16: but please remember that this is a work of fiction, and fan fiction at that, so while I don't own GRRM's characters, I like to think I can play with them a little. We're all along for the ride, right?


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